To Rule In Hell
by MMB
Summary: Regime change at the Centre is never a smooth or comfortable process. NOW COMPLETE!
1. The Rumble of the Approaching Storm

Chapter 1: The Rumble of the Approaching Storm

Wednesday

The alarm clock buzzed loudly, and a hand emerged from the covers to swat vaguely in the direction of the snooze button – and after four unsuccessful attempts, finally pushed the switch to 'off'. Dark eyes blinked out from beneath the warm covers into the brightness of the early November morning, and slowly Jarod pushed himself up on an elbow and scratched at the hair on top of his head with his other hand.

Even though he'd had this studio apartment for over two years now, awakening to both the sunshine coming in his window and the sound of traffic several stories below never failed to be a thrill first thing in the morning. Both symbolized his freedom from the constraints and underground life he'd led at the Centre for the better part of thirty odd years. Even when his lair had been an empty warehouse, he never failed to thrill at the sounds of society moving just outside those thin walls – or at the sunlight streaming through even the most begrunged glass reinforced with imbedded chicken wire. A place of his own in which he could have both was a dream made reality.

The studio apartment, rented under his own name, had been his gift to himself when he'd started his psychiatric residency. It was big enough to be comfortable housing for one – and occasionally housing a guest or two briefly. All of his siblings, Emily, Ethan and JD – Gemini had decided upon 'Jeremy David' as a name for himself, names that were quickly abbreviated by two brothers and a sister – had taken turns visiting for weekends. His reunited parents had flown in from Kentucky not long after he'd found the place to help him make it a home. It wasn't opulent – certainly he could afford more, but more would bring him closer to that Centre radar that he'd been so successfully eluding – but he was comfortable, and it was his.

He rolled to a sitting position with his feet almost touching the rug he'd placed to keep from freezing his bare feet on bare hardwood and scratched at a bare chest before giving a shiver of increased awareness of the chill in the air. It was a very short walk from the bed to the bathroom door and the hot shower that beckoned just beyond. As was a habit of years now, Jarod let the hot water soak him from head to toe, not moving a muscle until he was soaked and feeling much warmer. His Centre baths had been a washrag and a basin of rapidly cooling water that meant that he constantly had to rush or risk either a cold rinse or running out of time altogether. Instead of an unscented industrial soap that substituted only very poorly as a shampoo and left his hair brittle, he'd become addicted to and shampoo that made his hair soft and a baby soap that left his whole body smelling clean – something he'd always admired and envied a bit in Sydney all those years.

By the time his ablutions were finished, he was warm, very much awake and ready to face another day at the teaching hospital where he still had three months of grueling hours and a thesis paper to write in order to earn the right to take the exam for a license to practice psychiatry. A glance at his alarm clock made him shed the towel around his middle and reach for a clean set of underclothing. His shift began in a little over an hour – and he had a half-hour commute to look forward to.

Jarod dressed quickly in a casual polo shirt and olive-drab dress trousers that would be easy enough to shed to don the hospital blues he'd be wearing for the better part of the next thirty-six to seventy-two hours. He eyed himself in the mirror and slicked his hand over the hair at his temple and turned to his kitchenette, where his one-cup coffeepot had been set to have his morning treat ready at just this moment. He carried his cup over to the window and fingered aside the curtain to gaze out at the New York City he could see.

His cell phone on the kitchen counter chirped brightly at him, and he reached out a free hand to pick it up and hit the receive button. "Hello?"

"Hey, Jay!" It was Henry Kellogg, a fellow psychiatric resident who had graduated from Yale the same year Jarod had and been awarded his residency at the same psychiatric institution the same month Jarod had started there.

"Hey yourself, Hank," Jarod replied and sipped at his coffee. "You just getting off or getting ready to go on?"

"Neither, my man. I've got three weeks to do the research for my thesis paper, and I'm taking them."

Jarod's eyebrows climbed his face even as his grin spread. "Three weeks? Are you sure you're not leaving us short-handed?"

"Nah," his friend's deep voice chuckled. "I see you're going to be paired with Sanchez for the next few – and then…"

"And then I go over to St. Helena's to begin MY thesis research," Jarod filled in. "Actually, I'm being transferred over there temporarily, since St. Helena's is associated…"

"With Briarwood, I know. You chose an easy topic though – 'The Psychology of the Child Abuse Cycle.' It's been done to death, you know…"

"Not really – I'm working on the angle that follows victims of abuse through their childhood and into a pattern moving from victim to abuser," Jarod protested. "The premise is that if we can begin to identify the triggers to abusive behavior and find an effective means of early intervention, we could prevent so much heartache."

"Yeah – well, you can do yours in the comfort of an institutional setting. Mine, however, requires genuine field work. 'The Psychology of Prolonged Homelessness' needs to be researched out in the streets – in flop-houses and shelters…"

Jarod frowned. "That's a dangerous world you're talking about entering, my friend. Are you sure you've taken safeguards to extract yourself if you get in trouble?"

"That's part of the reason for this call, Jarod," Hank informed his friend. "There's a shelter down on west 187th Street called Dignity House – most nights I intend to be holed up there. I checked it out about three weeks ago, using my psychiatric ID as an excuse. There's a phone in the office that residents are allowed to use in the evenings – I'll be calling your cell. If I miss a day, don't sweat it – but if I miss more than one…"

"I'll have the police down there looking for you," Jarod promised. "How long did you say you were staying there?"

"Three weeks," Hand answered. "I need to know as much about the actual experience of being homeless as I can get – to understand the pressures and rejection of so-called 'normal' society, as well as the obstacles faced by those who want to escape and how the druggies manage."

"That's an awfully big topic," Jarod cautioned. "How are you going to record your findings?"

"Dignity House isn't far from the local branch of the library – and they have computers and free Internet. I gave myself a throw-away address to which to email my own notes – figuring that doing that rather than trying to keep a notebook with me physically might be a wiser move." Hank sounded very sure of himself. "I don't want to be looked upon with suspicion by the people I'm trying to research – that kind of defeats the purpose…"

"You just be careful!" Jarod exclaimed. "I haven't got that many friends, and I tend to be very protective of the ones I've got…"

"How many parties did you chaperone me home from in med school?" Hank asked, amused.

"Too many to count," Jarod retorted with a brusque chuckle, "and that's beside the point."

"Not really. Then again, maybe I should do my thesis on YOU – 'The Psychology of the Mother Hen'…"

"Oh shut up," Jarod sniffed and earned himself a hearty laugh from the other end of the line. "OK, smart guy – when are you taking off?"

"Tonite," Hank answered. "No sense in putting it off…"

Again Jarod's brows climbed. "Already?"

"And now that I have my safety check-in arranged, I have to take a trip over to an army surplus place and find me some duds that fit – but only just – and a backpack that has seen better days."

Jarod glanced down at his wrist watch. "Yeah – and I'm just about out of time to yak. I've got rounds in about thirty-five."

"Take care of the digs while I'm gone, man," Hank blurted suddenly, "and I'll be seeing you – maybe sooner than you think."

"You take good care of yourself – and don't hesitate to call for help if you need it, OK?"

"Cluck, cluck. See you in three weeks." And suddenly, Jarod was holding onto a phone with the call disconnected from the other end.

He chugged the last of the coffee down and reached for the box of Pop Tarts on the counter to pull out one of the silver-plastic wrapped packages to open and eat on the way into the institution. He put the edge of the plastic between his teeth as he reached for his black leather jacket – one of the few things that he still kept and wore from his days on the run – and pulled it on. The cell phone immediately was dropped into the right-hand jacket pocket, and the keys to his apartment and beat-up little Toyota came out of the pocket in its place. He threw the deadbolt as he walked out and just gave an extra tug on the door on his way out, and then started down the long stairs.

Now, the last thing he needed was a traffic jam…

oOoOo

Thursday

The dark-haired man walked down the corridors of Centre power and delighted, as always, in watching the lesser denizens of the institution slink to one side or the other so as to not be considered an obstacle. This was a perk to having the proper last name – and to having the ear of the Chairman – he decided and let himself puff up just as little more proudly. Lyle had had this effect on those around him for a while – something even Mr. Raines required a big, bruiser of a sweeper named Willy to accomplish. Perhaps it was his predictably unpredictable temper – or the fact that when it came to disciplining, he enjoyed being in on the process personally – but the fact that there were only a very few in the entire organization who didn't fear him never failed to make his day.

The smile he was wearing – cold and calculating as well as satisfied – stiffened as he pushed through the etched glass doors of the Chairman's office to see that his boss wasn't alone. Normally, at this hour, Mr. Raines was still studying the summary of all reports tendered the day before, or proposals from clients – not giving his full attention to someone of the ilk of Mr. Cox. The brilliant blue eyes of the head of the Biogenics Department rested evenly and calmly on the face of the intruder for but a moment before returning to the paper that both were studying.

"Come on in, Lyle," Raines wheezed and beckoned. "Mr. Cox is just bringing me…" Raines took an agonized pull of oxygen through the plastic cannula. "…up to date on the project he's been spearheading."

"Oh?" Lyle's steps hesitated slightly before he walked briskly to the desk. "I didn't know that…"

"Up until this time," Mr. Cox said in his very cultured and accented baritone, "it has been a 'need to know' project that you didn't need to know about." The brilliant blue eyes flicked up into Lyle's grey-blue with a much colder and self-assured expression in their depths. "However, we're reaching a point where the 'need to know' circle must necessarily expand a bit."

"I didn't know that there were any projects where I wasn't in the 'need to know' circle," Lyle aimed at the balding and skeletal-looking Chairman petulantly.

Mr. Raines' gaze rested on the face of his erstwhile 'son' with a touch of frustration. "You need to listen," he directed in a hoarse voice and pulled once more on the offering from his little green oxygen tank beneath the desk, "and stop complaining. The Centre – with…" He gasped in breath again. "…Triumvirate approval, is about to enter a new era of…" Another wheezing gasp. "…profitability."

"Without the Pretender Project back up and running?" Lyle's face showed his surprise. "That IS news!"

"The Triumvirate agrees with my assessment that Project Hydra's Teeth holds the possibility of restoring much of the financial stability of the Centre, once the trial phase of the project has been completed and we can move into full implementation," Mr. Cox stated simply and surely.

"And just what is Project Hydra's Teeth?" Lyle demanded.

Mr. Cox handed him a pair of papers, and Lyle's eyes slowly widened as he read further down the page. Finally, he looked up and at Mr. Raines with appreciation. "This is sheer genius! Brainwash the discards of society and train them into an army of single assignment assassins capable of blending into the general population – a sort of twist on the concept of kamikaze." He even gifted Cox with a look of admiration. "Can you even imagine how much in demand our product will be…"

"We are already in receipt of several inquiries as to when our newest product will be on the market," Raines wheezed and drew in breath noisily. "That is why Cox and I decided that the time had come to bring you into the loop."

"Oh?" Lyle didn't like the sound of that.

"We're ready to move into human trials," Cox explained patiently. "Mr. Raines was just telling me how effective you can be at… um…" He cleared his throat meaningfully. "…'acquiring' …the kind of test subjects that I'm going to need."

Lyle glared at his boss angrily. "I'm not a sweeper," he protested loudly, and then gestured at Willy, standing quietly and alertly behind Raines' desk. "Willy is more than capable of 'acquiring' the kind of test subjects you need – and I've got responsibility for several other projects, you know…"

"You haven't been in the field since the Triumvirate decided to pull the plug on the Pretender Project and the hunt for Jarod," Raines glared at his 'son.' "In fact, the only proof you've been able to provide lately as to your continuing skill in fieldwork is the fact that several cities have unsolved murder cases on the books that – if they only knew about each other – would sound very familiar to each other." He gasped in another breath. "I'm counting on your ability to hunt and capture without causing comment at the time to bring back a minimum of 10 subjects that will be put through the Hydra process."

"I can't just leave," Lyle continued protesting. "Several of the projects I'm managing are at critical phases…"

"I'm aware of the projects of which you speak," Raines growled hoarsely. "I will personally watch over your projects for you while you're gone…" He gasped in more oxygen. "…both this time, and any other time I find it necessary for you to take part in this endeavor."

"Damn it, that's a sweeper's job!" Lyle exploded.

"Mr. Cox," Raines spoke to the slender European doctor and assassin, "will you give us a few moments, please?"

Lyle found himself impaled by a very intelligent and mildly amused blue gaze for a brief and chilling moment before Cox nodded serenely. "Of course, sir," he gave a very slight bow from the waist and headed for the etched glass doors.

"You will do as you're told," Raines snarled breathily. "Your record when it comes to field assignments is no better than your sister's – and frankly, the Triumvirate is looking for some reassurance that you're still able to handle yourself outside Centre walls. I'm not getting any younger – and we need to be sure that the Centre will continue under competent management when I'm not longer around."

Lyle didn't bother with any platitudes or protestations that Raines would continue in his post for a long time – he didn't have the stomach for it, considering the task he was having forced upon him; and Raines would know them for lies. "I don't see YOU doing field work," he stated instead, rebelliously.

"I've DONE my share of field work – and most of it over the years has been successful, I might add," Raines retorted. "You, on the other hand, have had not a single success racked to your name since you tried…" He gasped. "…to buy your way back into Triumvirate good graces with one of the Centre's data chips and assassinated an entire satellite office in the process."

Lyle's eyes turned a stormy grey. There was little he could respond to that – his successes WERE more in an internal management capacity. "This is still sweeper duty."

"And you'll do it because I tell you to," Raines snapped, "or I will have to reconsider the wisdom of your continued employment." The watery blue eyes glared a warning.

Lyle shuddered. "When do I leave?" he asked with a huge sigh.

"I give you three days to tie up any urgent loose ends with your current projects," Raines relented slightly, knowing Lyle DID have projects at delicate phases, "and then you will brief me on current status and leave for New York City on Tuesday. Willy will be going with you…"

"Willy!"

Raines smiled coldly. "Yes – to make sure you don't go on any 'side-trips' and come back with, say, a young Asian lady that will distract you from the task at hand."

Lyle would have protested that he hadn't done any hunting of his own in months, thanks to a very busy work schedule that simply didn't allow for more than a single day free in every seven – not enough to hunt effectively and safely. But, knowing his 'father's' displeasure at his extracurricular activities in days past, he kept his mouth shut. "Three days?"

Raines nodded. "And you take Willy with you."

A quick glance up into Willy's dark eyes told Lyle that the trip would have little to make it anything but a chore. He sighed. "Three days – and I take Willy with me."

"Good!" Raines smiled predatorily. "Tell Mr. Cox to come back in as you leave, will you? There are some details that he and I still need to discuss…"

Lyle knew he was being dismissed, and a glance into Willy's visage told him that the sweeper was finding the put-down highly amusing. His eyes narrowed as he turned away from the massive and carved desk and headed toward the etched glass doors. One day, that ghoul would be gone, Lyle thought darkly. And then Willy would find out the price to gloating once too often.

One day…

oOoOo

Monday

Miss Parker closed her eyes and sipped at the coffee Broots had just poured for her, savoring the anticipation of the caffeine rush that was only a few minutes away. It was Monday – too damned early after a weekend filled with activities designed around a very lively and intelligent seven year old half-brother – and she had yet to completely awaken to full awareness. Mondays were this way for her now, and Broots had learned several years earlier that an especially potent and bracing cup of espresso hot and waiting for her at her desk when she appeared promptly at seven forty-five could make the difference between a snappish boss and one who was tamed and ready to work.

"What's on the docket for us today?" she asked with a lazy tone as she shifted through the pile of folders in her inbox with a bored hand. "Anything interesting?"

"Mr. Raines would like us to do a complete maintenance check and overhaul of all security systems," Broots told her, reading from the memo that had been left on his desk in the computer lab.

"He wants what?" She was incensed and appalled. "We just…"

Broots just held out the paper to her. "Don't kill me," he whimpered, "I'm only the messenger."

Miss Parker read the memo and then looked at her computer technician through narrowed eyes. "Didn't we do something very much like this a few months ago?"

"Yes – about six months ago."

She tossed the memo on her desk with a frustrated hand. "Then why do we have to do it again?"

Broots shrugged at her. "Because the security systems need regular checking – especially here at the Centre, where we have to be ready for Jarod or some other industrial saboteur to try to hack their way to sensitive material."

"As if Jarod could be stopped by any security systems we could think up," Miss Parker sniffed diffidently. "Oh, all right – we might as well pretend that this is top priority work for the top brass."

"How do you want to divide the work load this time around?" Broots asked, reaching across the desk for the pink box in which he knew there was at least one jellied donut left. "Do you want to sift through interdepartmental communications, or…"

"You do the hardware analysis, I'll do the interdepartmental communiqués again," she answered before he could finish. "That seems to be the one approach that fits our individual strengths in the field."

"If you say so, Miss Parker," Broots nodded. "I'll be down in Electronics Engineering, getting current schematics and checking out any new developments we might want to incorporate this time around."

Miss Parker settled herself into her comfortable chair behind her clear plexiglass desk and pulled the keyboard of her terminal closer to her. "I'll be right here, sorting through the detritus of six months' worth of interdepartmental gossip, kvetching and just general gab."

"Have fun," Broots smiled encouragingly at her.

"Get out of here before I rethink what would qualify as 'fun', Scooby," she snapped at him and then sighed as the balding technician obediently slipped from the room. These twice-annual security systems sweeps were getting very old. Aside from the occasional hardware upgrade that Broots was inevitably able to implement over the course of the review, her part of the process was almost boring – especially in the beginning, going through the interdepartmental yakking.

True, her perusal had uncovered a couple of conspiracies to steal Centre property and sell it on eBay last year – and demoted one department head for sexual harrassment of a secretary a couple of years ago – but these were the exceptions rather than the rule. For the most part, Centre personnel were too harried, too busy or too intimidated to try very much of anything original and/or against regulations. So many of the emails and communiqués were simply business-related or cross-departmental collaborations on certain projects.

She typed her password into her terminal that gave her access to level five clearance material, then started with the Behavioral Science email archive. The first three emails she read were regarding a project involving chemical intervention in behavioral conditioning in rats. At first, seeing the name 'Cox' appended to the notes caught at her attention – but when the emails continued to deal solely and specifically with lab rats of the rodent variety rather than the human, she lost interest. She saved Cox's entries into a folder of their own for later review – on a day when she was ready to be bored out of her skull – and moved on to the next researcher on the list.

After about another half-hour of boring statistics and requisition forms and progress notes for everything from pharmaceuticals to animal food, she decided to give herself a treat. One of the real perks of doing these endless systems checks was the opportunity to peek into the private communications of people who wouldn't normally be open to scrutiny. Smiling with perverse pleasure, she typed in the password that gave her access to the email accounts of many of the upper level executives at the Centre. She aimed her focus specifically at her twin brother, knowing that some of his email in earlier systems checks had been more than just entertaining. Perhaps she'd be able to garner more ammunition that would get her leverage with another in-depth probe.

What was this? She stared at the most recent email sent to Mr. Raines just that morning: "Am ready for you to assume control of my projects – briefing to be held at your earliest convenience before my departure. RSVP w/ appt for meeting."

Departure? Lyle was leaving the Centre for somewhere? In the middle of a systems check? That was unheard-of, because policy mandated that essential personnel remain available for consultation during that time.

Miss Parker hit the button to go to the next to last email sent from Lyle's terminal – and found it to be a note responding back to Mr. Cox: "Understand requisites. Have discussed potential population pools with Willy and have a couple of possible sources from which to gather the subjects you want. Will be in touch when I know more. L."

Finely manicured eyebrows rose. What the hell was Lyle doing talking about population pools and sources – sources of WHAT?

The answer, she knew, lay somewhere in the archive of Cox's email. But when she went to access his portion of the archive, she hit the wall of needing a level twelve clearance. That made the brows rise even higher. Since when was Mr. Cox's security clearance even higher than Lyle's – and what the hell would he be working on that would require that level of security?

She picked up the receiver and dialed an extension. "Broots," came a far more assured and calm voice than she was used to.

"Get your ass up here, Scooby," she said without any preamble. "I've tripped over something…"

"What's up?" he asked after a hushed consult with someone evidently in the room with him.

"Not over an unsecured line," she hissed at him in frustration. "I need your skill at decoding."

Broots was silent for a moment, obviously trying to read what she was trying to say between the lines and coming up with nothing that made sense. "On my way," was his eventual comment.

Miss Parker sipped at her espresso – now cold – and relaxed back into her chair to wait. If there was anybody able to help her decipher what was going on with Lyle, it was Broots.

"Yeah?" he asked as he pushed into her office without knocking. He glanced around nervously. "You think we can talk here?"

"I had Sam sweep it for bugs this morning, right on schedule," she sighed. "Yes, we can talk here. Lyle's up to something – and it involves Cox."

Broots shuddered. "Those two make my flesh crawl, Miss Parker. Why would they be working together on something?"

"I'm not entirely sure that they are," she explained and typed in a few keystrokes. "Here," she said, pointing to the monitor screen and pushing back and climbing out of her chair so that Broots could move in closer, "read that."

Broots scanned the email and then looked at his superior. "Sounds like he's going on a shopping trip for Dr. Death," he commented and shuddered again. "Did you try to access Cox's email yet?"

"Level twelve clearance," she sighed and looked back at the enigmatic email. "Out of reach." She finally glanced at Broots' face when he didn't respond, and found him wearing the oddest of expressions. "What?"

"Out of reach," he repeated, "UNLESS you happen to know a few hacks…"

"I think I love you," Miss Parker blurted ecstatically, and then sobered and shook a finger at his nose. "Professionally speaking, of course – and don't even think…"

"Of course not," Broots kept his smirk hidden in his soul and pushed himself into her chair to pull the keyboard into a more comfortable position. "Let a professional show you how it's done." He began to type – his fingers moving almost faster than Miss Parker could follow. What was appearing on the screen was line after line of gibberish – and he sniffed in frustration a couple of times before typing furiously again. Suddenly: "There you go," he announced, hit the enter key, and a listing of Cox's email archive ran down the entire screen.

Miss Parker waited for Broots to vacate her chair before planting herself in front of the monitor screen and examining each of the entries. "There!" she pointed, then shifted the select bar and brought up the email to Lyle.

"Candidates for the Hydra process must be the absolute dregs of society – cast-offs that nobody will miss. Previous drug involvement not an issue. Look for latent signs of intelligence, however – this will be needed during dormant phase. Sex not an issue. Cox" she read aloud and raised her eyes to Broots. "That doesn't make a lot of sense…"

"'Dregs of society' sounds like… you know… folks with no families, no homes, no jobs…" Broots offered.

Miss Parker's face folded into a disapproving grimace. "True – but this Hydra… I can't quite place the reference."

Broots shrugged. "Sydney would probably know."

She nodded. "Print those out and bring them with us."

"To the Sim Lab?"

"To the Sim Lab."

oOoOo

The Sim Lab was silent – only the sight of people sitting at tables gave any hint that something was happening. Sydney, his silver hair shining in the bright light of the overhead fluorescents, was sitting at a table between two identical young girls – each of whom wore a metal band around their foreheads with wires protruding that led to a black box on the table before them. Both girls were wielding pencils with single-minded focus, drawing on the white papers in front of them. Sydney, on the other hand, was looking back and forth between one and the other – with a card with a symbol in a clip held up so that the child couldn't see it in front of each.

The girl on the right suddenly looked up, her face creasing in a wide smile, and held up her drawing. It was an approximation of the symbol that was sitting in front of her facing Sydney. "Veerrry good, Elise," the Belgian psychiatrist purred. "Let's wait for Elsie now, shall we?"

Miss Parker cleared her throat to announce their presence, and Sydney glanced in their direction and gave a quick nod to let her know that he'd seen them. Patiently, however, he waited for the other child to suddenly look up and hold up her drawing – once more correctly approximating the card in front of her. "Veerrry good, Elsie. In fact, so good that you've earned yourselves a break." Sydney beckoned to Charlie, the sweeper that had been assigned to the Sim Lab at the end of the hunt for Jarod. "Charlie will take you both down to the cafeteria and buy you an ice cream." He pulled out his wallet from a back pocket and slipped the sweeper a bill. "Go on – enjoy yourselves."

The two girls rose – absolute mirror images of each other, and took the hand of their twin before letting themselves be guided by a hand on the shoulder from the sweeper. Sydney made some notations on the paper on the clipboard in front of him and collected the two drawings, then beckoned. "Well, well! It isn't often I get a chance to see you down here anymore, Miss Parker – especially in the middle of a workday."

"Nice to see you too, Freud," Miss Parker remarked in a tone of voice that blunted the sting from her words otherwise. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how much she missed seeing him on a regular basis. "I see you haven't given up playing with human bookends yet…"

"Yes, well, we psychiatrists rarely give up on an obsession," Sydney smiled, recognizing the reference and appreciating the insider feeling it evoked, and gestured for his two friends to lead the way into his office. "Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked as he discretely closed the door behind them. "I'm assuming this is NOT a social call…"

"We need your encyclopedic brain," Miss Parker seated herself in the closest, most comfortable chair in the office – with the exception of Sydney's own – and crossed her legs comfortably. "What do the words 'Hydra's Teeth' mean to you?"

The aging psychiatrist paused on his way to his desk to turn to a bookcase, linger a moment checking titles; and then he pulled a large volume from the shelf and carried it over. "The hydra is a creature of Greek mythology," he began, his accented voice slipping easily into the tones of an experienced lecturer. He opened the book to the front, ran a finger down what was obviously a well-used table of contents, and then sifted through the pages for the one he was looking for. "It was a serpent with seven heads, which was slain by Heracles. The teeth of the hydra reportedly held magical powers…" he added, bending down and reading a little further along, "and if planted and watered with blood, were said to hold the power to germinate into the skeletons of dead warriors." He looked up at Miss Parker as he seated himself and closed the book. "What's this all about – Greek mythology and the undead?"

"It's Mr. Lyle and Mr. Cox…" Broots started anxiously, shifting nervously in his chair, and then lowered his voice. "Although when it comes to the Centre, that's about as close as you can get to the undead – unless you talk about Mr. Raines himself…"

"Broots!" Miss Parker hissed and scowled. "We're in the middle of another security maintenance period," she then hurried to explain as her former colleague as he turned back to her with heavy silver brows rapidly chasing a receding hairline. "My half of the fun – if that's what you want to call it – is to sort through interdepartmental communiqués for suspicious information, evidence of theft, that sort of thing." Sydney nodded and leaned forward with his elbows on his desk, his fingers steepled beneath his nose, and waited for her to continue. "I started looking at Lyle this morning, and…"

"You have clearance to look at Lyle's personal emails?" Sydney asked in surprise, his hands plopping to the desk limply.

"I have clearance to look into many people's person email – since this is the Centre, any email sent here is considered anything BUT personal," she clarified with a glance that told the older man that she was issuing him a warning – if he needed it. "Can I continue?"

"By all means."

"I started with his most recent email – and found out that he was handing his oversight of several research projects to Mr. Raines himself and getting ready to leave…"

Sydney frowned behind his re-steepled fingers. "But that's against…"

"Policy, I know," she finished for him. "That got me wondering, but then I looked at the next to his last email and found it to be to Mr. Cox – and he was discussion potential population pools and requisites and sources of something. When I went to follow the line of communications back to Mr. Cox…"

"…she found out that Mr. Raines has him classified as level twelve security!" Broots exclaimed. "Even Mr. Raines himself doesn't have THAT high clearance…"

Sydney relaxed back into his chair, his one arm across his chest and the other nestled comfortably beneath his nose. "I take it that didn't stop you," he observed, knowing well Miss Parker's persistence when her curiosity was piqued.

As he'd expected, Broots began to smirk proudly. "I haven't exactly met a security clearance I couldn't get around one way or another…"

"Anyway…" Miss Parker barked, scowling a command to her computer technician to rein in his enthusiasm, "Mr. Cox's email to Lyle gave specific instructions to him about 'candidates' for the 'Hydra' process – about how they needed to be the 'dregs of society'…"

"Dregs of society," Sydney observed with a start. "Analogous to being undead in a social sense, I suppose..."

Broots shivered. "That doesn't sound good."

Sydney shrugged. "When one is dealing with either Lyle or Cox, nothing they're involved in 'sounds good.' When one is dealing with them working together…" He looked back at Miss Parker. "And that's it?"

She nodded. "Pretty much so. The project is called 'Hydra's Teeth,' and Lyle's evidently been sent on a recruiting expedition." She sighed.

"Who would Lyle be recruiting on such an extraordinary basis?" Broots asked, looking back and forth between his colleagues. "And why now, when he's supposed to be staying close to home – as it were?"

Sydney's finger slowly rubbed back and forth beneath his nose. "That phrase – 'dregs of society' – could refer to the homeless…" he suggested finally.

"But what does that have to do with Greek mythology?" Broots asked pointedly. "We know that project names are meaningful – and generally have something to do with the kind of work being done."

"More to the point, what does this all have to do with a many-headed serpent whose teeth, when watered with blood, give rise to an army of undead?" Miss Parker asked, her sense of unease rising.

Three pairs of eyes flitted futilely from one to the other.

"I hate this," Miss Parker hissed. "They're up to something again."

"Something unspeakable," Broots added, nodding vehemently.

"This is the Centre," Sydney philosophized fatalistically. "You were expecting something different?"

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Broots shuddered.

"You ain't the only one, Scooby," Miss Parker thwacked her colleague on the shoulder. "And I guess the only thing to do is to keep digging."

"Be careful, Miss Parker," Sydney warned her as he had so many times before. "And watch your back."

"Thanks, Syd," she replied, flashing him a smile of pure bravado. "And thanks for your help." She snagged a firm grasp on Broots' tee shirt sleeve and pulled him to his feet and toward the door after her. "C'mon, Watson. The game's afoot."

Sydney couldn't help sympathizing as Broots shot him a glance of a condemned man over his shoulder as he followed his boss from the office. Through the open door, he could see that Charlie had brought the twin girls back to the Sim Lab. Sighing, he rose to his feet and pasted a smile on his face. "Ah. You're back. Let's resume, shall we? Elise? Elsie? In your places, please…"


	2. Unexpected Developments

Chapter 2: Unexpected Developments

Monday morning

"That's your bright idea?" Willy was aghast.

Lyle frowned. "Look – your boss put me in charge of this little fishing expedition because I know how to make people vanish without causing very many ripples. So let me do what I do best and stay the hell out of my way!"

"Inviting total strangers to come along so you can sell them booze or dope is a lousy idea," Willy insisted, thoroughly disgusted. For the first time in a very long time, he was questioning Mr. Raines' wisdom in tapping Lyle for this so-important task – mostly because he didn't think Lyle fully appreciated the import or implications of a successful test run to this project.

"You forget," Lyle closed his eyes briefly and prayed for patience to deal with decidedly unimaginative sweepers, "that these folks – especially the ones strung out or with massive hangovers – are looking for their next score. They are not thinking clearly, or they wouldn't be needing drugs or booze in the first place. And it's morning – after spending a night in a shelter that doesn't allow booze or drugs on the premises – and they're hurting in a bad way at the moment. If there's a point in time when they're vulnerable..."

Willy looked out through the windshield of the van at the scattering of the poorest of the poor, garbed in rags and looking decidedly dirty and unkempt. "I thought we were also supposed to keep an eye out for intelligence," he grumbled. "None of these look like they could tell the difference between an S and a Z."

"That's why YOU'RE the sweeper, and I'M the one in charge of this trip," Lyle snapped finally. "If you have a problem with that, then take it to Mr. Raines AFTER we pick up the ten he sent us here for."

For a very long moment, blue-grey battled with ebony – and then finally Willy looked away. "Don't worry," he said in a low and threatening tone, "I WILL be taking this up with Mr. Raines when we get back."

"And when we get back without raising even the slightest alarm here, you'll see him support my methods – and you'll owe me an apology at the very least." Lyle reached for the door handle. "Now shut up, stay out of sight, get that chloroform ready, and watch someone who knows what they're doing."

Willy's snarl was interrupted by the slamming of the driver's side door, so he satisfied himself by punching the dashboard with his fist and then twisting around so that he could get to the back of the van. In a small box mounted on the side panel, he took down a bottle and pulled out a handkerchief. He knew better than to open the bottle or pour any of the liquid on the cloth as yet – he'd been close enough to the fumes to have earned himself a healthy headache more than once. The plastic bag that would hold the cloth when he'd finished with it and would be waiting for Lyle to bring the next candidate was already in his jacket pocket, ready.

He situated himself on the side of the van where Lyle had indicated he should sit and was just about to make himself comfortable when he heard Lyle's voice rapidly approaching. "Trust me, my man," the smooth-talking executive was promising to the faceless person under his spell, "I got some of the best shit on this side of the city – and at the absolute best price around."

"I done tol' you I got me a supplier, man," the gruff and scratchy voice of the victim protested cautiously. "He gives me a real deal sometimes – knows when I'm hurtin'…"

"Trust me, I know you're hurting right now," Lyle soothed, "and I have exactly what you need, just inside the van."

"What the hell? I ain't never dealt with someone who didn't have the stuff ON 'em…"

"Do you really think that I deal with the kind of crap they normally sell on the streets?" Lyle's voice became scathing. "That shit isn't worth the powder to blow it to hell. Now the stuff I got in THERE will take you to the moon and back for just about the same price."

"All right, man," the nameless man grumbled. "Lemme see what you got."

The door on the opposite side of the van from where Willy was seated opened suddenly and Lyle pointed. "Just speak to my friend in here, and I'm sure he'll be able to get you everything you need."

The man poked his head in and blinked at the darkness. "What friend?" he wheezed.

"Me," Willy said softly and clapped his hand filled with a chloroform-soaked cloth over the man's face. There was very little struggle before he could start to feel the man grow weak and then limp – and then Lyle had hefted the body completely into the back of the van and crawled in behind it to slam the door shut. "Now what?" Willy demanded, stuffing the suffocating cloth into the plastic bag before he could start to get woozy.

"Lay him out behind the driver's seat and cover him with that tarp," Lyle directed, moving through the van to the driver's seat, "while I move us to a new location. We have ten shelters in all to visit – each one far enough apart that we should attract no attention at all over time."

"How long is this going to take?" Willy grunted as he heaved the remarkably heavy body into a position against the side of the van and tossed the tarp over him haphazardly and then stumbled into the passenger seat.

"Not long, if we keep having the luck we just had," Lyle began, putting the van into drive and moving smoothly away from the curb without seeing a single head turn to watch where they were going. "This morning should see us have at least half the bodies Cox needs for his experiments. By tomorrow noon, we should be heading home again."

Willy fastened his seat belt. "Where to next, then?"

"There's a shelter over on West 187th that looked promising." Lyle made a sharp right turn and headed for the turnpike. "Dignity Shelter. The guests there congregate in an empty lot across the street after they're boosted from the shelter at eight in the morning, but they straggle all over the neighborhood after that, looking for their next score."

Willy grunted. OK – so maybe Raines DID know what he was doing having Lyle in charge of this trip. It didn't mean he had to like working for the man.

oOoOo

Tuesday

The telephone rang, and Mr. Raines let fall the details of the proposed contract with a representative of the Russian mob to reach for it. "Yes?" he wheezed into the receiver.

"Have you heard anything from Mr. Lyle?" Mr. Cox's cultivated tones purred through the phone line.

"We should get a call by noon," Raines confirmed in a breathless tone. He took a long, hard pull on his oxygen. "Patience, Mr. Cox – kidnapping ten people off the streets without causing comment is going to take time."

"It is very difficult to be patient when I've put three solid year's research into this project and have it so near its conclusion," Cox commented passionately. "Ever since I proposed the idea to Mr. Parker only a week before his untimely death, I've been hoping that I'd be able to contribute substantially to the overall health of the Centre on an ongoing basis."

"Nevertheless," Mr. Raines insisted, "patience will be essential for the time being. Lyle is the best we have at the job we've given him – we need to give him the time necessary to pull off taking ten people without raising a single eyebrow."

"You will call me the moment you have news?" Cox demanded. "I'll need to know when to begin the formulation process so that the initial treatment is ready the moment my test subjects arrive here at the Centre."

"I'll see to it you're notified," Raines promised. "But consider that you have the next day or so absolutely free." He smiled. "Take some time to indulge in your hobby in that medical clinic room on SL-25, if you wish."

He could almost see Mr. Cox's answering smile. "Perhaps you're right. I'll be in my private lab when you need me."

Raines hung up the phone without further ado. Cox had been relatively quiet about his research for the first year or so – and only revealed a portion of its potential when asked about it. Then, a year ago, he'd quietly made an appointment and spilled the most audacious and promising plan that had been heard since the initial Pretender Project proposal had been made – and Mr. Raines had taken Mr. Cox on as a personal mission. Where Parker and his damned Pretender had, in the long run, nearly bankrupt the Centre, Cox and his Hydra's Teeth would restore it to fiscal solvency and power.

He pushed the button on the intercom. "Sophia," he barked at his secretary, "I could use some fresh coffee – and a plain bagel. I skipped lunch."

"Yes, sir – right away," was the immediate and obsequious answer from his secretary's low and sultry voice.

Mr. Raines pulled a long and hard breath from his oxygen tank and gazed down at the contract details with a frown. He had half a headache – one that he assumed was from hunger more than anything else – and hoped the coffee would help him feel just a little more alert.

He turned in his chair to gaze out the window while he was waiting – and suddenly he felt as if his head had exploded. With a choking sound, his limp body slid senselessly from the comfortable chair into a crumpled heap on the floor behind the desk – completely hidden from sight.

oOoOo

Jarod tiredly slouched against the back cushion of the couch in the residents' lounge, his eyes closed against the morning light shining in through the east window. It had already been a very long forty-eight hours of a seventy-two hour shift – but the demands on his time had suddenly diminished to the point that he had sought out the lounge for a quick cat-nap. Only the knowledge that he was doing this kind of non-stop working on a voluntary basis kept him from resenting this near-recall of certain periods of time in his Centre incarceration. Then there had been no recourse to working until THEY said that he could return to his space to collapse in exhaustion – here it simply part of the training that each and every physician with an M.D. after his or her name had had to weather.

"I figured I'd find you hiding in here," Maricela Sanchez' softly accented voice announced from the open doorway.

"Two winks of sleep – that's all I ask," Jarod told her plaintively. "Don't tell me that Mrs. Miller has disrupted her catheter line again…"

The tiny Puerto Rican woman shook her head and chuckled at him as she moved to the counter where, against all odds, a coffeepot was kept warm and continually fresh. "No. She's been asleep for the better part of the last three hours – hopefully she'll stay that way until the next time the nurses do their rounds." She took down the mug from a hook beneath her name and poured herself a half-cup. "You look less beat than Hank normally does at this point in a shift…"

"Yeah, well, I've had more practice at working on little sleep than he has, I'll wager," Jarod mumbled and slipped until his head was pillowed on the overstuffed naugahide arm of the couch.

"Speaking of Hank…" Sanchez carried her cup of coffee over to the easy chair and sat down, kicked off her sneakers and curled her feet beneath her. "I wonder if he's OK."

"He's fine, when last I knew anything – which was night before last," Jarod threw his arm over his eyes. "He called right on schedule – said that he was going to spend the day hanging with this fellow named Shrimp. Something about alcoholism and panhandling techniques that he wanted to check out."

"What time does he call your cell?"

"Usually around eight-thirty every night – the shelter has a light's-out policy that kicks in at nine."

"You said you didn't hear from him last night, though?" Sanchez sounded worried.

"Easy," Jarod soothed. "He told me not to hit the panic button if he missed a day once in a while – but if he missed two in a row, THEN I was to start worrying. So, while I'd love to chat, I really need to catch a few 'Z's here…" he added with a yawn. "Everything's fine.

"Fine, fine, you get ten minutes' uninterrupted," Sanchez shook her head at him and yawned. "Oh great – now you have me doing it…" She stood, drained as much as she could of the hot drink and then rinsed her mug before hanging it up again. She cast an appreciative eye on the long and lanky doctor sprawled the entire length of the couch. If she didn't already have a boyfriend, that Jarod Charles would have had his hands full, she smiled. How such a good-looking man could still be unclaimed was beyond her at the moment.

"Paging Dr. Sanchez," came a calm voice over the hospital intercom system. With a sigh, Sanchez turned her back on Jarod and questions about his love life and rushed for the nearest intercom terminal.

oOoOo

"What?" Miss Parker asked sharply and looked up as a knock sounded on her office door. In the next breath, she was sighing and returning her attention to the monitor in front of her. "Oh. It's just you."

"I thought I'd drop by and see how the other half of the security system overhaul is doing," Broots said, walking across the office to put a Styrofoam cup with steaming and fragrant coffee on the desk next to her. "I also figured you could use a cup of decent coffee…"

Miss Parker straightened and reached for the cup. "Nice save, Shaggy," she quipped and took a long and much-appreciated sip of coffee that tasted like something other than the mud her secretary wanted her to believe was espresso. "No wonder I keep you around."

"I was wondering," Broots stayed close to the desk, "if you'd found out anything new about what Lyle's up to?"

"Not a damned thing," she shook her head and cradled her coffee against her chest. "How are things coming on your end of the process?"

"All the new components are in place and functioning optimally," Broots reported, "so it's just the information end of things that is pending. How about you?"

"There was a group in Shipping and Receiving who will have to explain why they've been opening cases of office supplies and helping themselves to the top two units of whatever was inside," she reported tiredly. "Then there were the three janitors who were running a lost and found – only they were the ones helping things disappear and then collecting small finders' fees when they suddenly 'found' the missing items."

"That sounds like a pretty good racket," Broots had to admit. "But that's all you found this time around?"

"Other than Hydra's Teeth – about which we still know precious little," Miss Parker said with a shrug.

"Have you checked incoming emails for the day?"

"Not yet," she sipped at her coffee again. "I was just finishing up the report on the janitors that included recommendations that they be given intelligence tests and see if some of them don't qualify for cleaner duties instead." At Broots' scowl of disapproval, she just shrugged again. "Considering the population pool we draw our janitors from – to borrow some of Lyle's new-found vocabulary – finding a glimmer of creativity calls for promotion." She almost burst out laughing at Broots' mouth dropping open. "Company policy."

He shook his head and deliberately dismissed the entire outrageous concept. "Well?" He asked, nodding in the direction of her monitor, obviously curious.

Miss Parker smirked at getting her computer technician to openly display his curiosity and impatience. "OK. Let's see what we have here…" She started typing and then gazed at the monitor screen. "Looks like Raines is getting some new directives from Africa…"

"What about?"

She typed in her password and frowned. "I'll be damned – the thing's encrypted."

"What?" Broots moved behind the desk to look at her screen with her. "Oh that. I see that often enough – let me…" He stopped explaining and simply brought up a new window and typed rapidly for a minute. "That should do it," he announced just a little while later and hit the enter key.

Miss Parker nodded, impressed, when the gibberish on her screen suddenly resolved itself into perfectly understandable English. She bent forward to start reading and then glanced up at Broots and pointed. "This is about Hydra!"

"What?" Broots leaned forward again and let his eyes follow the text. "'Looking forward to seeing test results when human trial period is concluded, including shipment of the first 10 successful subjects. Given that the fiscal potential for this project is so great, the Triumvirate is pleased to offer greater incentives to the Centre for rapid implementation of the project in full as soon as possible….'"

"Do we really want to know what it is they're saying when they demand an updated timeframe for delivery of the first 10 successful subjects?" Miss Parker whispered.

"Human trials…" Broots repeated. "I wonder if that's what Lyle's out doing – getting test subjects for a human trial phase for whatever this Hydra process does to people?"

Miss Parker sat back in her chair, her eyes narrowed. "It makes sense. Cox has moved his process – whatever it is for – through laboratory experiment stage and now needs subjects closer to the final product. Sydney – or was it you - said something about how that comment about the 'dregs of humanity' could refer to the homeless…"

"He's out picking up homeless people to be brought back here for… what?" Broots gazed at her in alarm.

"Screw security systems maintenance – I want you to focus on this," Miss Parker barked. "You say your part of the maintenance process is done?" She only barely waited for him to nod in astonishment. "Then get yourself to a protected terminal – maybe the one you used to use in the Sim Lab that you had partially shielded from security protocols back when…" she directed with a voice that invited knowing responses.

"I know what the capabilities of the security hardware I just put online – I can tweak that terminal to circumvent…"

"You just go do that magic that you do…" Miss Parker dragged Broots up straight with a handful of tee shirt pulled upwards into the air. "Tell Sydney what you're doing – quietly – so he'll leave you alone."

"Syd never gave me any grief before…" Broots protested.

"You know as well as I do how much he hates it when I start digging into things that certain people around here would just as soon I keep my nose out of," Miss Parker shook her head. "I seriously doubt that his hesitation will have gotten any less than it was back when. If he tries to get you to talk about things, tell him he needs to take it up with me – OUTSIDE the Centre."

"Yes, ma'am."

oOoOo

Sophia knocked on the etched glass with her free hand – the other carefully holding the small brown bag beneath the Styrofoam cup with experienced fingers. She was a tall woman with light brown hair and a very plain face that Mr. Raines had pulled from the clerical pool based upon her typing speed and the fact that most of the rest of her family worked at the Centre. She'd rewarded the Chairman's trust in her abilities by performing every task he'd ever assigned her with single-minded concentration and efficiency. As a result, she was one of very few who didn't have to wait for a call to enter to push through the glass doors.

"Sir?" she called out in confusion when there appeared to be nobody behind the desk.

She looked around the room. The doorway to the conference area where he would hold meetings with more people than could comfortably be seated in front of his massive desk was shut and looked as if it had been that way all morning. On the opposite side of the room, the door that led to the sweeper's lounge was also closed – that door was Willy's access to the room, and Willy was out of town with Mr. Lyle. Normally, Mr. Raines didn't have a replacement assigned when Willy's absence was going to be a very short-lived one.

The only thing that she could think of was that he'd been called out of the office while she'd been in the cafeteria – and such an event wasn't without precedent. The best thing for her to do was to put coffee and bagel on the desk so that they would be there, waiting for him when he returned.

Sophia had only taken two steps toward the desk before she could see how the drapes in the corner had a slightly crumpled and pinned look. That wouldn't do, she decided, and deposited the cup and bag on the desk before moving to free the drapes so that they would hang more freely.

"Sir!" she squeeked when she caught sight of the crumpled body on the floor. Mr. Raines' face was a pale beyond anything she'd ever seen – and only the movement of his chest in the act of breathing told her that he was anything but dead.

She straightened and reached for the phone, dialing an extension by heart. "I need a medical team to the Chairman's office immediately!" she demanded harshly in a voice more accustomed to soft compliance. "Mr. Raines has collapsed!"

oOoOo

Willy tugged on the unconscious man's arms, pulling the body toward the interior of the van while Lyle quickly lifted at the waist and shoved and bent the body so that the back door could slam shut. "Some of these fellows are pretty damned heavy for being drunks and druggies who don't do a lot of healthy eating," the dark-faced sweeper observed sourly as he dragged this next body up by the others. The second morning was nearly spent, and already they had nine subjects for Mr. Cox to work with.

Much as he hated to admit it, Lyle seemed to have a fairly effective system of collection that, so far, had called very little attention to what was happening. In fact, in the eight stops they'd made over the last two days, only once had anybody seen enough to try to complain. In that instance, the young man who had objected to an older, much grizzlier companion's sudden disappearance into the depths of the van had been dealt with swiftly and surely – and he now lay unconscious with his friend, destined for the same fate.

"You can never be sure what they were like before they hit the skids," Lyle shrugged and clambered over the growing pile of bodies stacked behind the driver's seat like so much cordwood. "Four more stops tomorrow…"

"We already have nine," Willy reminded him sharply, moving to the passenger's seat. "Since we're only supposed to be collecting ten…"

"A minimum of ten," Lyle corrected him with a frustrated snarl. "I have twelve shelters on my list – if we get a minimum of one from each, then we'll have more than fulfilled Mr. Cox's need with a few to spare in case of accident or injury." The Parker heir narrowed his blue-grey eyes threateningly at the sweeper. "We stick to the plan I designed until I say that we're ready to head back to Delaware."

Willy forced himself to bite his tongue against another argument – until or unless Mr. Raines specifically ordered it, he was nominally under the direction of this insufferable pretender to the Chairman's position. Frankly, he wished that Raines would tire eventually of Lyle's posturing as somehow being more effective or capable than Miss Parker. Both Parker offspring had managed to consistently fall far short of expectations. How they still managed – the both of them – in positions of authority and power within the Centre hierarchy was beyond him. But then, he was a mere sweeper – perhaps there was something going on that he was unaware of, some factor that he wasn't taking into account. The chance was small – Mr. Raines hid very little from him anymore – but it was still there…

Lyle's cell phone began to chirp as the van rounded a sharp corner that put it out of line of sight from their last destination, and Lyle pulled to the curb as he fumbled in his jacket pocket for the device. "What?" he demanded into it in frustration.

Willy watched Lyle's face with fascination as a number of reactions flitted across the youthful features in rapid succession. "Calm down, Sophia," Lyle said at last, putting his free hand up as if it do anything constructive. "You've done the right thing – and we'll be heading back to Delaware tomorrow as soon as possible, I promise. You keep following procedure until I get there, understand?" He nodded, listening to the voice in his ear. "Absolutely. And keep me informed of any developments, OK?"

He snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his jacket pocket before facing Willy. "That was Sophia…"

"I'm not deaf," Willy grumbled. "What's going on?"

"Your boss collapsed in his office this evening," Lyle announced with no preface at all and watched Willy's face slack into utter shock. "I told her to implement emergency procedure until we get back – and we need four more subjects to make our minimum." He moved the van back out into traffic. "You'll get your wish – we'll cut this short as soon as we have our ten subjects. Happy?"

"Doesn't this trump Mr. Cox's need for bodies?" Willy demanded, anxious to be back in Delaware, where he could watch over Mr. Raines – especially now, when he was incapable of watching out for himself.

"Mr. Raines made it perfectly clear how important this project is to the Centre – easily as important now as the Pretender Project was in its day." Lyle shook his head. "We'll bring Cox his ten bodies – and that means one more stop." _With any luck, the old ghoul will be dead by the time we get back to Delaware_, Lyle thought, _and I can finally claim my birthright – before my weak-witted sister can mount an argument before the board._

"Then let's get to it," Willy growled back. "We can't afford to be delicate. Snatch another one – who cares if they're homeless or not."

"We still don't need to call attention to ourselves – or pick up someone who will be missed by friends or family," Lyle snapped. "You already saw how much trouble we could have been in from that one bum."

Willy settled back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest, thoroughly frustrated but in no position to complain.

At the moment.

oOoOo

Miss Parker was getting stiff, bending over Broots' shoulder and watching him work, but she couldn't take her eyes from what was unfolding in front of her. She was familiar with the basics of programming and the basic operations of a computer – but what she was watching happen was nothing short of high-tech magic. The man had two windows open on the screen and would type instructions into one, to toggle the other to the fore and rapidly type in another series of commands there. It was almost dizzying to watch and attempt to follow – and Broots was so intent on his task that he wasn't even bothering to try to maintain communications with his observer.

No matter – he'd already uncovered several communiqués from Africa in regards to this Hydra's Teeth and the Hydra process – and nothing she'd read so far had been very enlightening. It was as if Cox was keeping most of the project data in his head – his reports were very vague, if not outright cryptic. It had been her idea to bring up Raines' appointment calendar and check to see how many times Raines had met with and conferred with Cox – and she'd been surprised at the number of times in the past year the two men had had over two hour periods of time set aside. That explained the lack of detail in the reports, however – the details had been delivered in person.

So intent was she on following the information stream on Broots' monitor that she nearly jumped out of her skin when the telephone on the desk started jangling brashly. Using her fingers to pull the hair back out of her face, she carried the handset to her ear. "What?" she demanded.

"Miss Parker, this is Sophia – Mr. Raines' secretary…" a soft, shy voice came at her.

"Yes, Sophia," Miss Parker sighed softly. "What can I do for you – or for your boss?"

There was a pause that made the manicured brows rise in serious surprise. Then: "Mr. Raines collapsed in his office and has been taken down to Renewal," Sophia announced for the second time, finding having to deliver the same piece of news twice to be doubly unpleasant. "There are security procedures that need to be put in place…"

Miss Parker had straightened in surprise and landed a hand on Broots' shoulder, breaking his concentration. "Absolutely," she replied, her voice completely emotionless and brusquely businesslike. "Collect all datebooks, appointment calendars and agendas that you may have been holding for him and deposit them on his desk. My assistant and I will be upstairs to institute lock-down as soon as we can. Under no circumstances is _anybody_ else to have access to that office – is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sophia replied, her voice getting small. "Do you suppose that Mr. Raines will be returning eventually?"

A small tic that threatened to begin to resemble a smile began at the corners of Miss Parker's lips. "That's up to Mr. Raines, the doctors in Renewal, and whatever God may exist," she replied in an expressionless tone. "Please do as I say – I should be there in no more than five minutes."

Broots' ice-blue eyes stared up into her face. "What gives?"

"Nosferatu has seen one too many sunbeams – at least, we can hope," she replied, putting the telephone handset back in the cradle with exaggerated gentleness. "He collapsed and has been taken to Renewal – and now we have security protocols for the sudden incapacitation of the Chairman that we need to oversee, Shaggy. Leave this…"

"Miss Parker!" Broots complained bitterly. "I can't just walk away from this. So much of what I've done is temporary until I've put the escape hatches permanently in place…"

"Fine," she said with a shrug. "I can go lock up the place by myself – and we can retrieve the hard drive from his computer when you're done here." She bent over him. "But it would be nice if we could get to that sometime before my darling brother gets back from whatever nefarious task he was doing for Hydra's Teeth, don't you think?"

Broots' eyes glittered. "Consider it done," he said and turned back to his hacking. Writing a major escape hatch that essentially bypassed every last security protocol and clearance flagging routine in the Centre mainframe was something he'd dreamed of having the chance to attempt. Now he had a timeframe in which to finish what he'd started. "How long do I have?"

Miss Parker looked down at her wristwatch. "Assuming that Sophia called Lyle first – which is probably what Mr. Raines would have wanted her to do – and assuming that Lyle will pull up stakes on whatever he's up to and hightail it back here, I'd say you have about two hours."

"Wait!"

"What?" she glowered at him.

"Take Angelo."

"What?" The glower had transformed into a stare of shock. "What on Earth…"

"Think," Broots insisted vehemently. "When time was of the essence to decrypt the plan to assassinate your father back when, who was it that sped up my decryption program?"

"That still won't make my taking Cousin It into the Chairman's office any more acceptable." Miss Parker sniffed.

"Fine. Then get him down here doing THIS." Broots pointed to his screen. "Nine chances out of ten, he'd have this done in no time."

She stared at him. "We don't have time…"

"…to be arguing the point," Broots finished for her. "Do you want this hack in place or no? Do you want that hard drive out of Raines' system or no?"

Miss Parker's eyes narrowed. "Don't push it, Scooby." She sighed. "Fine. I'll get Sam to dig up the vent rat and get him to you. You call me on my cell the minute you're free – got it?"

"You bet, Miss Parker," Broots nodded and turned back to his screens. This was HIS project – HIS hack – and if he could finish it before Angelo got there…

oOoOo

"Hit it!" Willy peeked out of the little window at the back of the van at the people who were staring their vehicle as it pulled away from the curb. Of all the times to have one victim manage to get a call for help off before the chloroform took hold…

"Damn it," Lyle swore softly to himself and manhandled the van into the traffic of the street and then into an even busier thoroughfare so as to hopefully lose anybody that was trying to follow them. "I told you we needed to keep being cautious…"

"I couldn't help it if he fought back early," Willy complained, being less than kind in dumping the last of their 'catch' on the floor of the van with the others. "Let's just get the hell out of New York and back on the road to Delaware, shall we?" He moved to sit in the passenger seat again at last.

"You aren't done yet," Lyle shook his head and jerked his right thumb over his shoulder. "They aren't all secured yet – you haven't tied hands and feet yet."

"Oh, for Christ's sake…" Willy growled dangerously.

"Shut up and do as I tell you!" Lyle snapped at him, starting to be thoroughly out of patience with the intrasigent sweeper. When HE was Chairman, he'd see to it that Willy got every last shit-job the Centre had, by God! "We don't need a bunch of druggies and drunks starting to wake up while we're on the road and being able to cause trouble by the time we get to the Centre."

"You should have thought of having me tie them up as we went," Willy snapped back as he moved back into the carpeted rear of the vehicle and pulled the tarp from the collection of sleeping subjects. "Just don't take any unexpected corners, OK?"

"I'll warn you," Lyle promised and slipped the van into the proper lane so that he could enter the turnpike heading south. "Just do as you're told." He then spent the next few moments reviewing their last collection and finally hit the steering wheel hard. "Damn it! They may have seen me!"

"Things happened too fast," Willy reassured him unsuccessfully as he found a seat on a box and pulled a small, zippered pouch from his pocket. "We were in and out of there in just a few minutes…"

"Long enough to cause a stir," Lyle insisted. "I even saw the head of the shelter peek his head at the window from the commotion that last one made…"

"And just what do you think he could see from a window one floor up?" Willy countered wryly. "Maybe he got a look at your suit – and the color of the van – but surely nothing else…" He had the syringe out and was measuring a careful dose of the clear sedative for the first of the subjects at his feet.

"Let's just hope that nobody misses that bastard that couldn't stop screaming," Lyle snarled and put the van into the lane moving the fastest.

"Just don't get us a speeding ticket either," Willy snarled as he pulled on the arm of the closest body so that he could slip the needle into the man's arm. "If the idea is not to call attention to ourselves…"

Lyle put his eye to the speedometer and throttled back until he was just slightly over the speed limit – and moving along with the ambient traffic on the road. No, the last thing they needed was a speeding ticket.

What they needed was to be safely back on Centre turf.

oOoOo

Dr. Charles Van der Meer adjusted the earpieces of his stethoscope in his ears and slipped the cold circle at the end of the plastic tubes beneath the cloth hospital gown to listen. His patient's heart beat steadily and strongly, with no evidence of any arrhythmia at all. He then looked up at the monitor that was measuring brain wave activity – and found the various lines flowing steadily across the screen with only the occasional small spike.

Were this anywhere but at the Centre – anywhere but in the Renewal Wing where medical experimentation meant that no potential for research was left unexploited, the man on the bed in front of him would have been pronounced brain-dead and, perhaps, harvested for organ transplant. But this WAS the Centre – and what was more, the man on the bed was the Chairman himself.

Dr. Van der Meer could remember the last time they'd had the Chairman in the Renewal Wing, supposedly in a catatonic state. The orders had been to sustain the life in the most possible comfort and health otherwise. Those orders had never been revoked – not even when Mr. Parker had suddenly 'awakened' from his catatonia and simply smiled that enigmatic smile of his just before bellowing for a decent set of clothing and an update from Mr. Raines. Those orders would remain in effect, therefore, until either the Triumvirate or the Board of Directors made a decision about the situation.

Careful fingers checked to make sure the cannula feeding oxygen to the emphysemic patient was properly nestled into the nostrils, and the doctor then made certain that the amount of oxygen being fed from the access on the wall was sufficient. A warm, white blanket was then pulled over the still, gaunt form, with hands settled on top of the blanket at the man's side. Van der Meer then carefully adjusted the drip of the IV to make sure that enough medication and hydration would be introduced into the comatose man's system, and then moved to the tall rolling table where Mr. Raines' medical chart was sitting open.

His notations wouldn't be substantially different from those the nurse had made only an hour before – but his recommendation that Mr. Raines be removed from life support due to irreversible brain damage as the result of the massive stroke was new. The MRI and xrays had confirmed the diagnosis – and the doubtful prognosis for recovery. With a flourish, he checked the box that ordered that he be notified only in case of a significant change in condition and closed the chart.

With any luck, the next time he came into this room, it would be to certify a death.


	3. The Challenge

Chapter 3: The Challenge

Tuesday afternoon

"Is that all of it?" Miss Parker turned an intense gaze on Sophia as she pointed to the desk.

"Everything that I could find," the secretary said sadly. She'd called down to Renewal to find out about her boss' condition – and the physician on duty had had very little good news for her. "The appointment books from my desk, all the papers from his In and Out boxes, everything current…"

Miss Parker looked up sharply as Broots pushed through the etched glass doors suddenly without knocking – and then turned back to the secretary with a gentle nod. "Good. You might as well take the rest of the day off – there really won't be any need for you to be here until there's someone to sit in the office."

Sophia's face fell just a bit. "I hope you'll consider me as your secretary when you move into here," she stated softly, knowing the time to put such thoughts forward was before they would be normally needed. "I know what Mr. Raines had on his agenda…"

"I'm sure that you'll be an important part of whatever happens here in the near future," Miss Parker stated with a glance at Broots to keep him from commenting further. "I'll keep you informed as to what is going on."

"Thank you, Miss Parker," Sophia said and looked around the office a bit before letting herself out through the glass doors.

"I can't believe that anybody would actually MISS Mr. Raines," Broots sidled closer to the tall brunette and kept his voice soft enough that it couldn't be overheard outside the office doors.

"She doesn't miss HIM, you ninny," Miss Parker snapped, her mind only partly focused on Broots' statement, "but rather her position within the Tower. With Raines gone, her ability to lay claim to the title of 'secretary to the Chairman' is in jeopardy."

"Oh…" Broots hadn't thought of that – the politics of the clerical pool was far outside his normal range of understanding.

Miss Parker stepped forward and backhanded his shoulder hard. "Focus, Broots. We're here for the hard drive from Nosferatu's terminal – and to properly lock away that and all of his calendars and files until another Chairman has been appointed. Or until Raines comes back…"

The balding computer tech flinched, both from the sharp blow and the idea that Mr. Raines might actually be coming back, and hurried to the desk to move the flat-screened display from the small desktop terminal. "Right, Miss Parker," he agreed and put his attention on the screws that held the case together. "What are we going to do with all this stuff, once we have it all?" he inquired as he worked.

Miss Parker had moved behind the desk and was flipping through the appointment calendar, taking note of which companies and governmental agencies were represented by the names on the pages. "The file cabinets here will be locked and a guard placed on them. For the stuff we're taking with us – the current data and the computer's hard drive – there's a safe down in the SIS office on SL-18," she answered – her mind once more only partly on the conversation. "As head of SIS, I'm the only one who has the combination to that…"

Broots looked up at her, his smile wide. "That's convenient, isn't it? You're the next in line to be Chairman, aren't you?"

Grey eyes regarded him with shock. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Oh, come now, Miss Parker," Broots returned his gaze to his work as he carefully disconnected the data cable and reached for the power plug on the little hard drive. "Who else would…" The technician's gaze returned to her face suddenly – and Broots looked a little pale. "You don't suppose that Mr. Lyle…"

Miss Parker's gaze was just as shocked. "I don't know…"

"Just how DOES the position move from one person to another anyway," Broots continued to follow his own line of thought. "How did Raines get appointed Chairman so quickly after your father…" He stopped talking and focused on working the mounting screws, knowing the subject of Mr. Parker's demise was still a very tender subject with his prickly boss.

"It seems my 'father' left written instructions as to who he wanted to succeed him," Miss Parker's shoulders were hunched for a moment – and then she began to leaf through the papers piled on the desk in earnest. "Mr. Raines would have been required by company policy to have a similar set of instructions. They're probably in here somewhere…"

Broots slipped the hard drive out of the mounting brackets and directly into a silver static protection sleeve that he'd brought up with him from his workstation. He pressed the adhesive edge against itself to seal it in and then put the little package on top of some of the paperwork that Miss Parker was looking through. "What if it isn't?" he asked in concern. "Didn't your father…" He stopped himself. "Isn't there a safe in this office somewhere…"

"You're right," Miss Parker exclaimed, straightening and pointing her finger at him. "There IS – and it stands to reason that such a document would be stored in the safe."

"Where is it?" Broots asked breathlessly.

Miss Parker moved the massive leather chair out from behind the desk and pointed down. Broots looked down to see, beneath the plastic runner on which the chair had moved back and forth, a recessed metal handle. "The thing is," she continued, "I was never told the combination to it – this safe was supposed to be for the Chairman alone. Nobody in the Tower had the combination."

Broots eyed her with expectation. "Who does, then?"

"I know the Triumvirate does," she answered simply.

"And so we wait until the Triumvirate sends a representative with the combination to open the safe and tell us who our new boss is going to be?" Broots was hard-pressed to believe it. "Don't the stockholders have any say?"

"The stockholders are really only just a way to give us an air of legitimacy, Broots," Miss Parker shook her head at his naïveté. "The majority of the public stock is held by members of the Parker family – Lyle, myself and Raines – and we make the decisions that everyone else has to live with. The Triumvirate holds about half of what's left, with the actual stockholders holding the rest…"

"But Raines is…"

"I know." Miss Parker's eyes glittered. "It opens a new and very interesting door of possibilities, doesn't it?"

Broots' eyes grew wider. "Are you considering…"

"My mother always thought that the Centre could be a place to do incredible good," Miss Parker said softly. "Maybe now I'll get the chance to do what she never was given the chance to – turn this place around."

"Mr. Lyle won't be very happy about that…" Broots warned.

"Mr. Lyle will just have to live with it, if I'm the one Raines picked to follow him," Miss Parker said archly. "We'll just have to make sure that is what the papers in the safe say."

"Miss Parker!"

"What?" she snarled at him. "Do you WANT Lyle in charge?"

"N..n..no," Broots backpedaled quickly. "But… how are you going to…"

Miss Parker began to smile. "I have an idea…"

Broots sighed. Every time she said something like that, things never quite worked out right – and half the time, she ended up getting hurt. He could only hope that this wasn't going to be another one of those times.

oOoOo

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lyle," the uniformed guard at the gate greeted the driver of the black Centre van and waved the vehicle through the moment the barrier had been lifted.

Lyle breathed a deep sigh of relief as he finally entered Centre grounds – where not even local law enforcement dared intrude. "At last," he commented more to himself than to anybody else and then turned to his companion. "How are our passengers doing?"

Willy glanced into the darkness behind the driver's seat and then straightened, shrugging. "All still out like a light – just the way we want them," he replied expressionlessly. After drugging each one, he'd taken the time to secure hands and feet – just in case one of them had a high tolerance to the sedative he'd been using.

"Good." Lyle guided the van into the parking structure and then around a corner to a loading dock, and then backed into an open space. "Get some sweepers down here to transport the goods to Mr. Cox's lab – I have business to attend to above."

"Didn't Mr. Raines put YOU in charge of this?" Willy asked incredulously.

"What of it?"

"Then it's YOUR responsibility to make sure the goods are delivered to Mr. Cox's lab."

Lyle's head turned slowly and he regarded the African-American that had been his boss' right hand man with narrowed eyes. "You do realize that with your lord and master in Renewal, I'M the one in charge now?"

Willy's gaze didn't flinch. "I haven't seen Mr. Raines draw up any document that leaves you in his chair in case of illness…"

"This isn't illness, you idiot!" Lyle burst out laughing. "From the sounds of it, the old ghoul is probably being kept alive by machines at this point."

The dark face split into a snarl. "That's still your boss, MR. Lyle – and he's still alive."

Lyle merely chuckled and shook his head. "I should have guessed. You can't get your mind wrapped around the idea that things are going to be changing around here, can you?"

"You hope," Willy scoffed. "For all we know, Mr. Raines has regained consciousness and is in full control of the Centre as we speak."

"How much do you want to bet that he's flat on his back in Renewal and unconscious?" Lyle challenged.

Willy shook his head. "I know better than to bet. I'm just saying that it's too early for you to be wanting to count your chickens."

"We'll know when we get up to his office, I guess, won't we?" Lyle said calmly.

"AFTER we deliver these warm bodies to Mr. Cox," Willy replied, reminding the man he'd love to have in a dark alley alone and unarmed of the task that faced them in the immediate future.

The two glared at each other for a long moment, and then Lyle relented. "C'mon," he growled, pushing the driver's side door open, "let's get things arranged here so that I can go make sure that everything's safe and secure above."

Willy nodded solemnly and opened his door too. Mr. Lyle wasn't going to get out of his sight – in case the wily younger man had any ideas of usurping his boss' authority and power while Mr. Raines was incapacitated. Having Lyle at the head of the Centre, sitting in the Tower office making decisions for the entire organization, wasn't a pleasant thought – and Willy wasn't quite sure what he was going to do if Mr. Raines really were on death's door, or already gone.

oOoOo

Broots hadn't stopped staring.

Miss Parker had claimed that she didn't have the combination – but after she'd stopped grinning like a Cheshire cat, she'd admitted she'd watched her father get into the safe a number of times as a child. With that, she dropped to her knees and spun the dial as if she knew what she was doing – and lo and behold, the handle moved when she grasped it.

"Oh man," Broots fussed nervously. "If Mr. Lyle or Mr. Raines ever finds out that you…"

"Now how are either of them going to know anything if YOU DON'T OPEN YOUR MOUTH?" Miss Parker barked at him from the floor. "Here – be a help and not a hindrance." She reached into the hole in the thick cement and drew out a red document case bearing the Centre's distinctive logo. "I'll bet you dinner at the Saddle and Spurs Steak House that this is what we're looking for."

"No takers." Broots took the folder from her so that she could push herself to her feet again – and then was more than willing to hand it back to her. "Here," he said emphatically as she snatched it from his fingers. "I don't want it."

Miss Parker moved to the easy chair in front of the desk to sit down before smoothly unwinding the ribbon from the twin spindles that held the document case closed. She smiled grimly and pulled the single sheet from the thick cardboard. "I was right," she said after a moment perusing the neatly typed words.

"What?" Broots was almost afraid to ask.

"The bastard wanted to hand the Centre to my darling brother," she snarled, looking up at her computer tech in disgust. "And you know what that will mean, don't you?"

The balding man nodded and swallowed hard. "We're so screwed…"

"Not necessarily. O ye of little faith…" Miss Parker reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette lighter, which she held up triumphantly. "The Triumvirate might THINK Raines left instructions – but there are a lot of things that Raines was SUPPOSED to do that he conveniently forgot." Her grey eyes narrowed. "Right?"

"You intend to destroy that and then challenge Lyle?"

"It's either that or hand the Centre over to him on a silver platter," she scoffed and then hissed, "Of course I'm going to challenge Lyle. And when the time comes, I intend to take control." She strolled calmly toward the private restroom. "And I can only do that if THIS disappears."

Broots watched from a distance as she set the document on fire – and then held it over the gaping toilet bowl until the ashes fell of their own weight into the water – dropping the last little bit of paper only just before her fingers were singed. She pushed the lever to flush the toilet – and the deed was done.

"What now?" he worried at her.

"Now the fun really starts," she responded seriously, sending a shiver down Broots' spine.

oOoOo

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Lyle bellowed the moment he exited the elevator and found himself looking at his sister and her trained monkey as they affixed cautionary tape across the etched glass doors. Next to them stood two burly sweepers, their arms filled with small boxes holding all sorts of papers.

"My job: sealing the Chairman's office, pending the reading of the letter of recommendation for next Chairman," Miss Parker responded, straightening and turning to face him, "as specified in the Centre protocols. If you read your handbook more often than you read your Chinese cookbook, you'd know…"

"You know as well as I do that I'm the person who is most qualified for the Chairman's position," Lyle insisted pointedly, walking down the corridor until he was standing toe to toe with her. "The Triumvirate and the stockholders…"

"…have nothing to do with the process of succession, and you know it," Miss Parker shrugged with narrowed eyes. "As the head of SIS, it is my job to secure the office of the Chairman and all of his files and papers – ESPECIALLY the paper designating his choice of successor." She nodded to the sweepers next to her. "These men witnessed my opening the private safe and removing all the papers it contained – these papers will be taken and deposited in another safe pending the next stockholder's meeting, when the Triumvirate will read Raines' instructions." She gestured, and another pair of sweepers came up and stood on either side of the taped doorway. "And these two men, and those who replace them, will make damned sure that nobody goes in or out of this office until the Chairman's position is filled officially.

Lyle seethed. _This is what happens when I'm sent out of town at the wrong damned time,_ he thought angrily. "And just exactly WHEN is this meeting going to take place?"

"What do you think?" Miss Parker answered derisively. "The earliest we could get all our stockholders together with the Triumvirate representatives would be a week from today."

"A whole week?!" Lyle gaped. "And just who is to make the decisions in the meantime?"

She looked at him and knew that this had NOT been expected. Lyle had thought that he'd be able to waltz into the position without any real challenge or competition. No doubt he'd thought that he'd be able to just waltz into the Chairman's office and sit down in the big chair without the least vetting process. "Don't be stupid, Lyle," she tossed at him in a mocking tone that made her brother flush with fury. "There is nothing critical happening that requires Tower oversight for the time being – so department heads can continue to exercise their authority until THEY have someone to answer to."

"You're preventing me from assuming my position…"

"I'm preventing you from usurping the Chairmanship," she agreed with a hiss. "The Triumvirate and stockholders – which includes you and me, if you remember – will be the ones making the final decision."

"The stockholders are powerless wimps that you know and I know are there only for show," Lyle spat at her. "It takes strength and will to take the job – and that's where I have you beat."

"You think so?" Miss Parker's expression turned hard. "I trained for the job my entire life – and I've sacrificed for the Centre. I'll be damned if I'll let some Triumvirate-nursed Bobbie-Come-Lately to steal MY inheritance out from under my nose. It's the reason why I was re-appointed the head of SIS – and I've done a good job keeping the Centre safe. I've even managed to keep your… 'activities'… from besmirching the Centre when you get careless."

"I'm not some Johnnie-Come-Lately," Lyle stormed, riling even more at the play on his former name. "I'm your twin… and I know where all the skeletons are buried. It was I who helped Raines arrange for most of the on-going projects for the last couple of years – since Daddy Dearest decided to go swimming off the coast of Africa." He smirked. "I'm the best qualified to run this place – and I'm a Parker."

"You may be my twin, but you are the YOUNGER twin," Miss Parker reminded him sharply. "Like it or not, Lyle, I'm older than you."

"Age has nothing to do with it…"

"That's right!" she exclaimed, throwing her hand in the air. "The only thing that matters is what Raines designated – and that will be heard for the first time at the stockholder's meeting next week. You and I will just have to cool our heels until then."

Lyle simmered, but didn't dare air some of the things he wanted to say to her. Broots, the perpetual geek and honest observer, had been standing to one side very quietly taking in the entire conversation; and while the assembled sweepers may not have been hired for their intelligence, but they too could make witnesses. "We'll just have to see how things go over the next week, then, won't we?" Lyle forced himself to use his smooth, sane, corporate executive's voice.

Miss Parker's eyes narrowed again. It wasn't going to take the voices in her mind to start screaming at her to know that this was a declaration of war between the two of them – with the Centre itself as a prize. "Indeed," she nodded, forcing her own voice back down to a more civilized tone. "And may the best man – or woman – win."

The smile that slowly spread across Lyle's features was enough to chill the blood. "I'm sure he will," he commented knowingly and then turned away.

"I don't like the sound of that, Miss P," Broots whispered as the elevator door closed behind the younger Parker twin.

"Neither do I, Scooby," Miss Parker shook her head and then turned to the sweepers. "Follow me and bring this stuff down to the SIS office. We'll lock it up – and then place a 24/7 guard on that too, pending our stockholder meeting next week."

The sweepers bearing the boxes didn't say a word, but fell in behind Miss Parker as she headed to the elevator. Broots followed along behind, wondering just how Miss Parker was going to be able to convince the Triumvirate to select her over her ambitious and unscrupulous brother. His eyes couldn't miss the stiff, determined way she was carrying herself – and felt a shiver run down his spine. The Parker twins were at war – and something told him that this would not be just a case of massive political maneuvering within the organization.

With Lyle involved, the likelihood was that blood would flow eventually. Broots could only hope that it wouldn't be his own – or Miss Parker's.

oOoOo

The mattress beneath him was thin and lumpy, and the air had a decidedly cold touch to it. More importantly at the moment, Hank Kellogg's head ached far too wretchedly for him to want very much open his eyes to see whether it was dark or light out wherever it was that he'd ended up. He moaned and put a hand to his head, finding the act of trying to think clearly much harder than normal. It took several moments for him to piece together his last conscious memories – and then the enormity of what had happened to him sank in fully.

He'd been kidnapped! Snatched from the streets of New York in broad daylight and brought to God only knew where for some unknown reason – and Hank was as sure as he was of his own name that the unknown reason was probably not one he'd like. Had he had the slightest idea that trying to interfere with those businessmen-types hassling old Booger would have landed him a face full of chloroform, he might have thought twice about it. Certainly the others had been watching with the dead eyes of those whose lives had seen one too many outrages, with none raising either a stink or a hand to lend an assist – why could he have not taken the hint?

With a groan of pure agony, Hank opened his eyes and then blinked in disbelief. He was in some sort of cell – featureless cement walls completely lacking in windows surrounded him on all sides. The room was narrow – wide enough to accommodate the rough cement slab on which the mattress lay as a bed; a small table with a chair were placed near the door and the toilet and commode were at the far wall. The door had been painted a grey that matched the color of the concrete, making it almost invisible. The light – what little there was of it – was coming from a small lamp on the table. There was no way of telling how long he'd been here – or whether it was daylight or night outside these cold walls.

Briefly he wondered whether enough time had passed for Jarod to start to worry. He'd missed the previous night's call because of the discussion he'd been having with Booger in the dorm room – if another night had fallen, he would have missed two nights and Jarod would know something was wrong. In the bottom of his stomach, he was glad that he'd made the arrangements with his slightly eccentric friend – but something told him that he might have been taken out of range of his friend's rescue attempt.

Hank pushed himself slowly up until he could slid his legs over the edge and let them hang limply. He felt as if he'd been mugged – and he had, in a way. Chloroform had a nasty tendency to linger for a while – and he knew it would take time for him to regain complete control of his muscles so that he could walk without leaning or assistance.

The grey door suddenly flew open and thudded dully against the cement wall – and two very large, very muscular, very intense-looking men squeezed through the narrow doorway and took very firm control of Hank. "Come with us," the one muttered in a voice that told Hank that the order was more matter of form – there would be no discussion, no plea for explanation heard nor fulfilled.

Hank, his head feeling like it was ready to explode and fall into pieces on the floor, could only hang limply between the two as they dragged him out the door and down an apparently subterranean hallway toward whatever awaited him.

oOoOo

Tuesday Night

"And you say you haven't talked to him in the last two days?" Jarod asked, his voice being very fiercely disciplined to a tone of mild concern.

"He told us that there would be days that we wouldn't hear anything," Virginia Kellogg answered patiently. "Why?"

Jarod closed his eyes. The absolute last thing he'd wanted to have to do is tell a mother that her son had gone missing. "Because I didn't hear from him last night either – and he told me that he'd be calling before eight at least every other night," he answered – technically telling her the truth without adding the subtext. The moment she looked at her watch, she'd get the message. "I'll call the shelter and make sure he's checked in for the evening – and call you back."

"Please do." Virginia was starting to catch onto the implications of Jarod's concern. "I'll be waiting by the phone here."

"You'll be hearing from me." Jarod hung up and immediately pulled out the notebook that had the number Hank had given him days earlier written down. It was already nine o'clock in the evening – according to the rules of the shelter, all the residents would have to be inside by now. He waited anxiously for the phone to ring on the other end.

"Dignity Shelter…"

"Hello. I'd like to speak to Hank Kellogg – he's a resident in the shelter…" he said in an innocuous, business-like tone.

"Just a moment," the man's voice on the other end said, and there was a background sound of the rustling of paper. "I'm sorry, but we don't have a Hank Kellogg registered as being with us tonight."

"Are you sure?" Jarod insisted.

"His name isn't on the list," the man was adamant – and yet there was the sound of paper rustling again. "He hasn't been on the list for the last three nights."

"Damn," Jarod hissed to himself, and then addressed his remarks to the man on the phone. "Thank you."

He put the receiver down and rubbed his mouth and chin thoughtfully. Hank was in trouble – he just knew it. He'd had a bad feeling about it when the call hadn't come through the night before – but it had taken this long for him to get off-duty and away from the hospital…

He had three days to find Hank and pull him out of whatever morass he'd managed to get himself into before he had to be back at the hospital for another seventy-two hour stretch. As an afterthought, he turned to the telephone again and dialed another number from memory.

"Hello?"

"Sanchez? This is Jarod."

"Jarod!" The pretty resident's voice sounded relieved. "Have you heard from Hank?"

"No, and that's what I'm calling about. I'm going to go out looking for him."

There was a pause on the other end. "Are you sure that's such a wise idea? New York City's a very large place…"

"I'm very aware of that," he told her easily. "And I have a few resources that might be able to help me figure out what's going on. But I'm going to need you to run interference with Dr. Bennett for me – in case I don't make it back in time…"

Sanchez sighed. "First Hank gets his butt in a sling, and now you're saying you might end up in the same pickle. He's gonna be so pissed – you might lose your position…"

"I'd rather lose a position than a friend," Jarod replied intensely.

"I know – but you'll be my second friend out there," she reminded him pointedly. "I haven't go so many friends that I can afford that many at one whack, you know?"

Jarod smiled. There had been a time a year or so back when he'd seriously considered dating the fiery native of New York's Spanish Harlem – only to be put off by the very close and protective nature of her father and three older brothers. "You aren't going to lose another friend, Maricela," he soothed. "I'm going to find Hank."

"I'll do what I can with Bennett," she promised softly. "Take care of yourself, amigo."

"You too," Jarod said and then disconnected the call. The Dignity Shelter was across town – and most likely would be locked up tightly. He could sleep some – and then he'd have to be up and about early to get there in time to talk to some of the other residents.

Maybe they had seen something.

oOoOo

Sydney was both appalled and flabbergasted. "You did WHAT?" he boomed at Miss Parker, very glad that he'd agreed to her invitation to visit in her home now rather than find out about her news at work.

"I burned it, Syd," she replied calmly, brushing an imaginary mote of lint from the knee of her dark suede trousers. "And before you open your mouth to ask me what the Hell I was thinking, I'll ask you what I asked Broots: did you WANT Lyle to be in charge?"

"Of course not, but…" The Belgian found it difficult to remain seated on the couch next to his colleague, and so rose and began to pace. "To burn Raines' directive…"

"Look, Syd, I'm not here to ask for permission – or even forgiveness," she spoke up in a firm tone that made him pause in his trek back and forth and gaze at her sharply. "What I'm here for is a psychological profile of Lyle – what can I expect of him, now that I've leveled the playing field a bit?"

Feeling the weight of her focused attention land on his shoulders, Sydney forced himself to sit back down next to her. "You can expect the unexpected – you know this," he informed and then chided. "Lyle is unpredictable – and more than capable of taking advantage of seemingly insignificant details to give himself an edge. What's more, he was 'in the loop' of many of Raines' hair-brained schemes. God only knows what he's going to drag up from the depths of the Centre sublevels and throw at you."

"Like Hydra's Teeth…"

Sydney threw his hands out. "Hydra's Teeth or any one of a dozen covert projects that probably have been going on below your radar as head of SIS," he replied. "Did you ever find out what Hydra was all about?"

Miss Parker shook her head. "Not yet – but now that we're finished with the security update, we can focus on using those trap doors into the high-security files that Broots and Angelo put in place to find out more."

"If Angelo is given access to some of the information, it's possible that he can intuit what it's all about," the psychiatrist suggested. "Then the only problem is getting Angelo to express himself intelligibly."

"I want this, Syd," she stated suddenly and with a quiet vehemence that made Sydney's attention snap immediately to her. "I want to take my place as Chairman here. This is my chance to take what the Centre has become and turn it around – to finish my mother's work…"

"Parker…" A gentle hand landed on her knee in a rare display of intimacy. "Your mother died trying to prevent what was going on here – and at least one of the players responsible for her death is at least marginally still in the game. You told me once that you wanted out…"

"I know, but if I can change the Centre instead…" Miss Parker insisted back, grey gaze diving deeply into a very worried chestnut. "Please say that you'll help."

The silvered head slowly shook back and forth. "You shouldn't even feel you have to ask, Parker," Sydney replied in a soft voice. "Of course I'll do what I can – but I can't help it if part of what I do will be to warn and to voice concerns over what I see as traps and patches of quicksand…"

"That's what I need from you, Syd," she answered, and in an even rarer display of familiarity, covered his hand with hers. "I need your insight, your ability to get information out of Angelo – whose help I will need a great deal – and your concern. I need you watching my back."

"I'm on your side, Parker, and I'm glad to have your back – but you do realize you're playing for keeps, don't you?," he warned then. "Are you ready to do whatever it takes to win, no matter what?"

The grey gaze narrowed to a hard determination as she pulled her hand away. "With these stakes, you better believe it."

oOoOo

Lyle's prowling had finally led him to the hallway in front of Mr. Cox's laboratory on SL-25. Knowing Mr. Cox, the lab would be in full operation at this hour of the night – the good doctor, if that was truly what he was, had an unhealthy preference for the nighttime hours to conduct certain phases of his experimentation. Through the closed swinging doors, he could hear the sound of a voice raised in complaint and pleading. That both raised his spirits and gave him an idea. He pushed through the doors.

Mr. Cox looked over at the doors to see who his late-night caller was. "Mr. Lyle," he smiled coldly. "You're just in time to watch the beginnings of our human testing." He pointed to a man on a gurney who was now clad only in a hospital gown, his arms, chest and ankles securely strapped down to prevent both escape and injury. The man's eyes were wide and horrified, and apparently pleading with the white-garbed man standing closest. "This one seems to be the one under the least influence of intoxicants – so I thought we'd start with him."

"Fine," Lyle shrugged and found himself a tall stool on which to perch his bottom while Mr. Cox went about the process of filling several syringes with the contents of a number of small bottles. "How long do you expect before you'll know if your process is a success?"

"The initial dosing is to induce hallucinations that renders the subject vulnerable to psychological suggestion," Mr. Cox sounded as if he were giving a lecture to a student. "There are a number of tests that I'll be conducting in about an hour to see if the optimum level of suggestibility has been reached yet. Depending on the stage of the process, there are a number of other injections – and I'm hoping that the entire process shouldn't take much more than twenty hours max."

"And if the subject doesn't respond to the process as expected?" Lyle asked blandly.

"I have, on rare occasions, needed to repeat the primary dosage," Cox tapped on the side of the syringe and then squirted a small amount of the clear liquid into the air to eliminate air bubbles. "I'm hoping that starting with the least chemically compromised individual, I won't have that worry at least this time around." He opened an alcohol swab package and wiped perfunctorily at the inside of the man's elbow. "Are you here to observe?"

Lyle nodded and let a touch of pride and satisfaction touch his voice. "I'm going to be taking over this organization soon," he informed Mr. Cox. "I think it's time I start paying attention to some of these projects – oversee them personally."

"As you wish," Mr. Cox shrugged and slipped the needle into the man's vein. A quick pull brought a tiny amount of blood into the syringe, and then he was easing the chemical into the man's body slowly and carefully.

"How soon will the drug take effect?"

Mr. Cox eyed his test subject with a studied eye and caught the beginnings of muscle tightening in the neck. "Right about now…"

oOoOo

It was a skill that she hadn't used for a very long time – and one that would take some practice to recapture. Miss Parker eyed the signature at the bottom of the requisition forms from several years back and then the signatures she'd just made at the top of the page of clear notebook paper. The top loop of the capital R of Raines was too wide in each of them – too round, she realized and tried it again.

The next set of attempt wasn't bad – but the slant of the L's in William was too much this time. Another adjustment…

Miss Parker's brow furled as she slowly and carefully made a third set of attempts. How often she'd done this in the months between her mother's death and being shipped overseas to boarding school! Her grades in school had slipped badly, and notes had been sent home to her father regarding her poor attitude and study habits that had required his signature. The signature at the bottom of those notes had taken her about an evening's work to perfect to the point that, when presented with the signed notes, her father had frowned and grumbled about not remembering signing them.

In the boarding school, she'd made spending money – GOOD money – by forging the signatures of the head master on passes to town and for special privileges for her classmates as well as herself from time to time. Her skill had been such that, once more, the head master had scratched his head and wondered that he didn't remember signing the passes – but that it MUST be his signature. It had been twenty years since last she'd tried.

The fourth page of attempts had virtually flawless forgeries. She held the two papers up to the light, comparing flow and slant and letter form in each of the efforts – and smiled. She had it! She signed the notebook paper again, just to make sure – again holding the original and the copy up to the light to see if they matched, and again being pleased that the copy was so true to the original.

With that, she reached for the clean piece of onionskin letterhead paper – the kind that Raines had used to record his wishes for the future of the Centre. No doubt Sophia remembered typing up the letter for him – so as many of the details of the letter as possible would have to be the same. The wording had been very specific – almost formulaic – and very easy to remember. The only change would be the person specified as the suggested next Chairman, where she would fill in her own name.

Now she was glad she hadn't had the heart to clean out the attic of the summerhouse yet. Digging into her mother's personal belongings up there was still a form of sacrilege – but the typewriter hadn't required digging. It had been in its old case right there by the door, right where her mother had left it. All it had taken was a new ribbon, courtesy of the office supply store managed by the same man that had been in charge as when her mother had bought the typewriter in the first place.

Miss Parker patiently inserted the paper into the typewriter and began the job of recreating the document she'd destroyed earlier – recreating it but for one small adjustment. Getting this document into the folder and into the SIS safe wouldn't be all that difficult. Getting it from there back into the safe in the Chairman's office might be a little more tricky – but not impossible. All that would be needed would be a propitious moment.

She eased the paper from the typewriter and patiently began signing a name other than her own to it, keeping in mind all the subtle changes that needed to be considered to make the signature appear genuine. When finished, she held the new "official" document up to the light next to the original and smiled in satisfaction. He may not know it yet, but Lyle had just gone down by one point in the contest that was to come.

Whatever it was going to take – no matter what – was exactly the length to which she intended to go. She WAS going to win, and she WAS going to be Chairman. There could be no other acceptable outcome.


	4. Let The Games Begin

Chapter 4: Let the Games Begin

Wednesday Morning

Jarod looked across the street at the front entrance of the Dignity Shelter, where Hank Kellogg was supposed to be collecting information for his research paper on the psychology of homelessness. It was a plain, red-brick building with very little to distinguish it from its surroundings; even the small sign affixed above the doorway didn't call attention very loudly. The street in front of the shelter was a typical inner-city mess, with a car up on blocks and missing its wheels and doors, the usual mix of homeless and poor milling about aimlessly, and litter strewn everywhere.

He'd been in such places before – and he didn't like it now anymore than he had when he'd been forced by his fugitive status to seek refuge in such an environment. At those low points in his life, even having his freedom didn't mitigate against the depression that inevitably would set in living in what was, truly, a part of the 'cement jungle' of the inner city. Not a tree or green growing thing could be seen. Looking up, one could glimpse blue sky on a clear day – and that was about as close as one could get to Nature.

Taking a deep breath, Jarod thrust his hands into the pockets of his old leather jacket, pulled from the back of his closet for old-time's sake, and sauntered across the street toward the front door of the shelter. It was mid-morning already – the residents had already taken their obligatory leave of the premises. This would be as good a time as any to ask the head of the shelter a few questions.

"No residents in the building until after four-thirty…" came a bored and nasal voice, followed by the sallow face of a man peeking around the corner of a doorjamb. "Oh!" he exclaimed when he saw Jarod. "I thought you were…"

"No, I'm not," Jarod agreed evenly. "But I AM here about one of your residents – a Hank Kellogg?"

"Hank Kellogg?" The man beckoned, and Jarod followed him into a moderately disheveled looking apartment. "Have a seat," he directed Jarod to a shoddily draped and dilapidated couch while he went to a cluttered table for a heavy-looking book. "Hank Kellogg…" He brought the book back with him to sit down on the other end of the couch – and then looked up sharply. "There was some other fellow called and asked about him last night…"

"That was me," Jarod admitted. He pointed to the heavy book. "I know that he hasn't been in residence for the past three nights – but I was hoping maybe you'd have some information about where he might have gone…"

The man made a face and shook his head. "These guys don't tell me squat – and I'm just as glad of it," he spoke in disgust. "I just keep the registration books straight and change the sheets on the cots when a new client comes in where an old one used to be."

"Do your residents leave any of their belongings here during the day?"

"Nope," the man shook his head again. "Anything found on the premises during the day is considered abandoned." He patted the closed book on his lap. "I'm sorry, but the only thing I can tell you is whether or not he was bunking with us on any particular day."

"What about friends?" Jarod persisted, hoping that Hank hadn't truly just vanished into the incredibly cruel and harsh inner city. "Who could I talk to that knew him?"

"Hank was hanging around a fellow by the name of Booger – always seemed to be asking him questions and such." The manager shook his head yet again. "Sometimes that ain't a very healthy thing to do…"

Jarod perked up slightly. "Where can I find this… Booger?"

The slightly greasy and lanky head of hair made a twitch toward the front of the building. "On the corner, there, there's a park bench. If there's a fellow in an old, red flannel jacket and one of them Russian looking hats, that's Booger. Mind you, though – Booger doesn't exactly have all his marbles, if you get my drift…" The washed-out blue eyes peered at Jarod to make sure his meaning was understood. "On a good day, you can believe maybe half of what that loon says."

"Well, thank you for your time." Jarod was on his feet and moving toward the apartment door.

"Good luck finding your friend," the manager called back, not even bothering to rise.

Jarod sighed as the door closed behind him and then walked down the first steps of the building slowly, his eyes studying the shapeless lumps that deposited themselves on the park benches of the area. Not a one of them sported a red flannel jacket.

Damn!

He made a bee-line for the park bench that the manager indicated was Booger's normal daytime roost. "Hey," he called to get the attention of the dirty and ragged soul sitting there. "Anybody know of a guy named Booger?"

"Booger's gone," the lump of dingy clothing moved to reveal itself as a man with at very long and ragged beard and slightly wild looking dark eyes. "They took him – and the noob that was hangin' with him lately."

Jarod felt the beginnings of a knot in his stomach. "They took him, you say… Who's this 'they'?"

"Folks what don't belong here," was the grunted answer. "Dark suits. They was talking to a bunch of us for a while. Then I seen em followin' Booger back over here – and then the big guy in the suit grabs 'im. Booger's new pal started to complain, and the other guy grabbed 'is arm. B'fore I knowed it, they had both of 'em hauled up into the back of this black van – and they was tearin' down the road…"

"Booger was snatched – and his friend too?" Jarod repeated incredulously.

"Right here in broad daylight – bold as you please." The man looked back down at the plain brown paper bag in his hand. "And I heared tell same thing happened in front of the Little Sisters of Mercy not an hour later." The lump shrugged itself back into shapelessness. "Dangerous place out here, the streets are these days…

Jarod turned away in the direction of the nearest bus stop, his right hand rubbing his mouth. Hank was in trouble. Something was VERY wrong.

It was time to bring in the police.

oOoOo

"What do you mean, you can't do anything about it?" Lyle's morning had NOT been going well – and to hear that the Triumvirate was in no position to assist him was to rub salt in the wound.

"It's very simple, Mr. Lyle," the accented voice responded with exaggerated patience. "It is a question of numbers – and policy. Policy dictates that the Chairman leave written instructions regarding his successor – and that such a document will be read at the first stockholder's meeting after the Chairman's death or… in this case… incapacitation."

"But you're the Triumvirate…" Lyle hissed. "You dictate to the Chairman…"

"We hold the purse strings for several very important projects for the Centre, this is true," the accented voice continued, "but at times like these, the wishes of the stockholders must be adhered to. They have declared that there will be a full meeting of all investors, and that the selection of the next Chairman will come after Mr. Raines' intentions are read. Until then, you and Miss Parker will have joint responsibility for the smooth operation of the Centre."

"But I'm sure Mr. Raines wanted me to take his place – he told me…" Lyle sputtered.

The voice on the other end of the line sounded unamused. "While Miss Parker assures me that she heard very clearly that he wanted HER to take his place."

"That's preposterous!"

"Frankly, the only thing that matters is the document making his wishes clear – and the subsequent stockholder vote."

Lyle's face was flushed with anger. Willy had brazenly informed him that for as long as Mr. Raines was in the Renewal Wing, his place was THERE – and not doing odd jobs for one of two contenders for the Chairman's position. It had always stuck in Lyle's craw that he was the only one of the top echelon of Centre officials who did NOT have a personal sweeper – and with Raines out of the way, there should have been no problem moving Willy to his side of the field. But no…

"The Triumvirate share of stock is more than that of the publicly held…"

"Actually," the voice corrected sharply, "that imbalance was reversed after Mr. Raines took control."

"Still…"

"Mr. Lyle." The accented voice was calm and unmoving – and held a note that told the Parker sibling to sit up and take notice. "The meeting is set for a week from today. A representative of the Triumvirate will be on site there in Delaware by the end of today. You are advised to be patient."

Lyle crashed the receiver into its cradle. "Patience my ass," he growled. He rose from his comfortable chair behind his desk and walked to the window overlooking the huge manicured lawn that stretched nearly the entire distance between the Tower and the white sand beach of the Atlantic. "I can't just sit around…"

And suddenly he began to smile.

oOoOo

"Here." Miss Parker put a folded slip of paper on Broots' keyboard.

"What's this?" He reached out for it and would have opened it but for the hard grip on his shoulder from behind.

Miss Parker bent so that her lips weren't very far from her computer tech's ear. "Passwords I happened to glean while browsing through the documents from Raines' office yesterday." She backed off just a bit and nodded when he turned to face her with a look of pure surprise on his face. "Dollars to donuts that those are the passwords to the top clearance levels in the mainframe."

Broots' eyebrows were climbing his forehead quickly. "Do you know what that means?" he asked in a rough whisper, meanly squashing the temptation to look around and see if anybody was trying to listen in on their conversation.

The hand tightened on his shoulder. "Of course I know what that means, Shaggy. It means that you're going to unlock all the Centre's secrets for me over the next few days, right?"

Broots nodded slowly. "All that work creating a back door that bypassed security…"

"I'm sure it won't all be wasted time." The claw dug into his shoulder became a companionable pat. "You can use the passwords to get me project names and so on – and teach me how to use the back door for when I go home at night."

There was a slow smile beginning to dawn on Broots' face. "I know what you're doing – you're getting a step ahead of Lyle," he announced appreciatively.

"You noticed," Miss Parker replied, patted his shoulder a couple more times and then moved away. "And we're going to start with Hydra's Teeth – I want all the particulars on that particular project that exist in the computer on my desk as soon as possible. For some reason, that one has me concerned."

"What about Raines' hard drive?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. Let's dissect what is at hand first, before we go trying to dig into stuff that's supposed to be held under lock and key." She moved toward the opening to his cubbyhole. "I'm heading down to the Sim Lab – page me there if you find anything interesting.

"Yes, ma'am!"

One down, Miss Parker told herself silently as she walked confidently down the corridor toward the elevator. The next part of her plan, however, would take finesse and skill.

"Miss Parker!" Sam trotted up to her from the opposite end of the corridor. "Mr. Lyle is looking for you."

"Do tell." Her voice was a study in sarcasm. "One of these days, he'll actually find me. In the meanwhile…" She pointed. "I want you to keep an eye on Broots – let me know if anybody starts hanging around his work space and just watching him. He's doing high security work for me that I don't want shared with the rest of the world – especially now." Her storm-grey eyes bore holes through Sam's blue gaze. "Capisce?"

"Got it, Miss Parker," Sam responded immediately. For the first time in a very long time, she'd handed him an interesting task. He'd set himself up someplace innocuous, where he could keep track of the comings and goings of people up and down the corridor and especially into the computer lab. The sweeper grapevine was already humming with rumor and speculation as to what to expect from the Parker twins as they vied for the Centre crown – it would be fun to be a little on the inside and know what was happening, at least from one side of the fence.

The only fence he wanted standing, he decided. The mere thought of a Centre with Mr. Lyle at the helm was enough to give him gooseflesh.

oOoOo

The prick of a needle entering his arm roused Hank Kellogg, and he blinked repeatedly to clear his vision. The man in the white coat was unfastening the straps that had been holding him to the table – and then gave him a hand in sitting up.

"How do you feel?" Mr. Cox asked his test subject with bright-eyed eagerness.

"Just fine, sir," Hank responded immediately. "A little hungry…"

"We'll take care of that in just a moment. We have just one small test that needs to happen before we can send you back to your room to eat and rest."

Hank accepted the thin bathrobe that addressed the modesty issue of wearing a hospital gown and gazed expectantly into the white-garbed researcher. "What test is that, sir?"

"Come with me." Mr. Cox's hand was at Hank's elbow as the thin man slid carefully from the gurney and onto unsteady feet. "It's just a little ways up ahead."

Hank plodded complacently at the man's side. He didn't know the man's name, but he just KNEW that he was supposed to do exactly what this man asked of him – without question.

Mr. Cox was hard-pressed to hold in his delight. This subject had sped through the complicated process of drug therapy and standard brainwashing techniques – and now was as docile as a lamb being led to the slaughter. If the ease with which this subject's mind had been reshaped and molded was any indication, there were going to be very pleased clients in Africa for the Centre – maybe even an above-ground office space for him in the offing.

The door to the laboratory opened, and Mr. Cox escorted Hank through and into a darkened room. "Sit here," the researcher ordered, pushing Hank into a metal folding chair situated in the middle of the room. "Wait – and do not move." From beneath his white lab coat, Mr. Cox pulled out a revolver and placed it in his subject's lap. "If anybody tries to make you move, I want you to kill them. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." Hank nodded calmly. He was to sit, and if anybody tried to force him to move, he was to use the gun. It was a very easy order.

"Remember. Do NOT move." When the man in hospital clothing seemed to turn into a statue, Mr. Cox cautiously made his way back out again.

"Make it convincing," he directed the three sweepers who had emerged from another room and who now stood with guns at the ready. "He has to think that you mean business – and will kill him."

The lead sweeper nodded perfunctorily and then moved to the door. "Ready?" he asked his two assistants and then, when they nodded, pushed open the door harshly so that it banged against the wall noisily.

"Stand up!" he barked in a sharp voice as the light in the room flared suddenly to illumine everything. "Turn around slowly and put your hands up!"

Hank simply sat there. He was under orders to sit – and sit was what he was going to do.

"Damn it!" The second sweeper moved to Hank's side and gave his shoulder a vicious shove. "Listen, you idiot. If you don't stand up and do as you're told, he's going to kill you. He's been itching to do someone a mischief all day…"

"Shut up, asshole!" the lead sweeper hissed and moved to his assistant's side and shoved him out of the way. "I told you to stand up," he said in a soft and lethal tone to the man in the chair.

Hank simply sat there. All he could think of was that he was told not to move – so that was what he was going to do.

The head sweeper stuck his gun in Hank's ear and chambered a round – and the man in the chair didn't even flinch. "If you don't get to your feet, I'm going to paint that wall over there all pink and white." Still the man in the chair sat absolutely motionless and virtually without paying the least attention.

A quick jerk of the head had the second and third sweepers hauling Hank up out of the chair by his arms – and suddenly Hank exploded into action. He had the gun in his hand almost before any of them could anticipate it and held it to the second sweeper's head steadily and squeezed the trigger. A light puff of paint issued from the barrel, but the sweeper dropped the arm and fell to the floor as if dead. The third sweeper struggled with the arm as it came quickly around to take aim at him, and finally wrested the gun away.

"You do know what I'm going to have to do," the head sweeper said, moving directly in front of the test subject and putting the barrel of his gun to the man's forehead. "You're a dead man."

The expression in the man's eyes was eerily calm as the sweeper pulled the trigger – bringing a puff of paint and chemical that atomized immediately and was breathed in as well as absorbed through the skin. The chemical was a quick-acting sedative, and the bathrobed man sagged and would have fallen to the floor had it not been for the third sweeper's hold on him.

Mr. Cox came in just as the second sweeper was picking himself up off the floor and dusting himself off. "Take him back to his space," he ordered, smiling with glee and satisfaction. "See to it food is available for him when he wakes up."

The sweepers nodded obedience and half dragged, half carried the unconscious man back through the laboratory door. Mr. Cox made some quick notations in the man's file folder and then tucked his pen away with a smile of satisfaction. Now all he'd need would be another of the subjects to respond as quickly and favorably as the first, and his position within the Centre/Triumvirate would be assured.

"Bring me the next subject!" he called out to one of the sweepers who lurked near the lab doorway to provide security for the project. There was no time to waste.

oOoOo

Miss Parker looked up as a small noise from the air conditioning grate caught at her attention. As she watched, the grate swung open on virtually silent hinges and Angelo slipped out – his brilliant blue eyes never leaving her face as he shut the grate and turned to face her. "Sydney say Daughter need Angelo?" he managed in a somewhat halting voice that gave vivid indication of how hard it was for him to put together an easily coherent sentence sometimes.

"Yes, Angelo, I do need you," she replied quietly and pointed to a chair in front of her desk. "Sit down," she invited and opened the lower drawer of her desk. In there was the box of Cracker Jacks that she had brought that morning just for this occasion. "I need you to do a favor for me."

"Tasty treat," Angelo smiled at her suddenly, nodding.

"That's right," she nodded and put the box on the desk just a little ways out of the small man's reach. "I need you to put something into Mr. Raines' old office for me – and I need you to do it without anybody knowing what you're doing."

Angelo's blue eyes gazed up at her brightly and then focused once more on the colorful cardboard box. "Red folder into the floor…" he stated with certainty.

How he could guess what she wanted was a subject that Miss Parker didn't really want to understand. That he knew – and that he agree to do the job – was all she wanted to know. "Can you do it?" she asked sharply, still holding the box out of reach.

"Thirty-five left, twelve right, sixteen left, twenty-two right," he recited, his eyes closing as if listening to an inner voice. "Then turn handle."

The accuracy of Angelo's recitation was almost enough to take her breath away. How many secrets might this man have seen in his many years wandering the hallways and hidden vents of the Centre? "That's right, Angelo. Put this…" she handed him the red document case, "in the safe, close it up, and then leave without touching anything else."

The bright blue eyes were on her face again. "Daughter want Daddy's chair," he said, his face blooming with a bright smile.

"Can you do it?" As always, time spent with the empathic little man was frustrating as well as enlightening.

"Angelo do," he replied finally. "Angelo do today. For Daughter."

"Very good, Angelo," she responded and pushed the box of carmel corn and peanut mixture into his reach. "I'm counting on you."

Angelo pulled up his pull-over tee shirt and stuffed the red document case under his shirt, then tucked the box of Cracker Jacks into his mouth. Without another word, he reached up for the ventilation grate and opened it – and then seemed to just be swallowed by the small hole in her wall. The grate swung closed once more on silent hinges – and Miss Parker was once more alone in her office.

She slowly let out a long-held breath and ran her fingers through her hair. That, if nothing else, would serve to put a kink in Lyle's tail. Now to make sure that she ended up with at least as much if not more information about what the Centre had been up to for the last few years than Lyle was. She glanced down at the contract she was supposed to be blue-pencilling for the legal department – and impatiently pushed the papers back into the folder from which she'd taken them.

She had every last resource at her disposal working on her dilemma – getting a step ahead of Lyle now, at this late date, wasn't going to be easy.

She hurried from her office, once more concerned and curious about what Broots might have uncovered in her absence.

oOoOo

Captain Frank DiAngelo studied the paperwork in front of him and then gazed up into the face of the new detective. "Jarod… Holmes?"

"Yes, sir." Jarod didn't flinch under the police captain's scrutinizing gaze. "Is there a problem, sir?"

"No," the greying head shook slowly. "I'm just at a loss as to why Central felt you needed to be assigned here. I see your specialty is undercover work – specifically in the inner city. We've got plenty…"

"Cap, I was sent here to check out a disturbing story that was starting to circulate around the places I've been frequenting while in the field," Jarod hastened to explain. The less time one of these supervisors had to either examine his credentials or think about calling to question the higher-ups, the more likely a Pretend was to succeed. "Some of the guys I get my information from were talking about a black van going from one shelter neighborhood to another, snatching shelter residents."

"Say what?" The captain was astounded.

"We have an eye witness from the vicinity of the Dignity Shelter that turned up over at the Little Sisters of Mercy talking about two of his buddies getting hauled into a van three days ago – and then another witness talked about one of his buddies getting hassled by some 'suits' and then disappearing over at the uptown Salvation Army…"

"Three homeless guys…" The captain sounded skeptical.

Jarod shook his head. "Seems that one of them wasn't your regular homeless shelter resident. He was a psychiatric resident doing research for his dissertation – and he has a mother who is VERY worried. And the more we followed this at my old precinct, the more convoluted the trail became."

"That's fine," the captain let the file drop onto his somewhat messy desk. "That doesn't tell me what you're doing in my precinct, though, or what you want to prove here…"

"Whoever these guys were in this van, they seemed to be moving in this direction. My job is to see if the trend that started in the '47' continued over here – and if it kept on going. If we have a serial kidnapper at work here…"

The captain had blanched. "Has the media gotten wind of this yet?"

"No," Jarod soothed, "but there's no promise that the psych student's parents won't eventually spill the beans if they feel that police aren't taking the case seriously."

"Fine." The captain seemed to come to a decision. "There's an empty desk over there by Wang – it's yours. Keep me up to date on your investigation – and do your best to keep the news media from catching the slightest whiff of this. Last thing this department needs…"

Jarod followed the pointing finger with his eye to where there was a relatively abandoned-looking desk in the back of the precinct bull pen. "You don't have to worry, captain – since I'm the only man the department wants on this case for now, there's very little chance of a leak."

"See to it that it stays that way!" DiAngelo picked up Detective Holmes folder and tossed it into his Out box. "If you need resources, ask."

"Yes, sir." Jarod pushed through the glass door and headed toward his desk. With any luck, Captain DiAngelo wouldn't feel a pressing need to call Captain Fischer over at the '47' to confirm his story – and with just a touch more luck, he would figure out what was going on and be out of this Pretend before anybody could begin to ask questions.

Pretending wasn't a part of his life anymore – and the sooner he could go back to being just plain Jarod Russell, psychiatric resident, the better he'd like it.

oOoOo

"OK, let me get this straight," Lyle sighed in frustration and leaned forward toward the accountant. "You're saying that nobody with a Centre job has a majority vote here?"

"With the Chairman's shares standing as an 'abstain' vote, only the stockholders themselves hold a majority," mousy little Cindy Stewart, with thick glasses and slightly stringy hair that hung limply over her shoulders, answered with no hesitation. "The Triumvirate, as an organization, holds a fifteen percent share of the total public offering. You and your sister have nineteen percent each, and the Chairman's share stands at twenty-five percent. The remaining twenty-two percent is held by the stockholder's association."

Lyle gritted his teeth. That nineteen percent investiture was enough to ensure that both he and his sister were independently wealthy individuals – but the continued control of that block of stock and the fat dividend check it deposited into their bank accounts on a regular basis was contingent upon compliance with the wishes of the Chairman. Open rebellion in regards to policy decisions or project selection was cause for the financial rug to be jerked – and the authority and force of the Centre security department to be wielded in swift and decisive retribution.

That threat had kept them both in reluctant thrall to the Centre – first under the administration of Charles Parker and then most lately the administration of William Raines – for a very long time. And now that the opportunity to slither out from under that despotic thumb had come along, both he and his sister were going to have to be patient until the stockholder's meeting.

"So, say if I talk to the Triumvirate and get them to throw their fifteen percent in with my nineteen percent. That would be thirty-four percent…"

"Yes," Cindy explained patiently, wishing herself anywhere but under the scrutiny of one of the volatile Parker twins, "but all Miss Parker has to do is keep the majority of the independent stockholder vote with her, and you'll be outvoted thirty-four to forty-one percent."

"I could meet with the independent stockholders…"

The accountant shook her head. "To be honest, Mr. Lyle, the stockholders of this corporation have consistently voted with the recommendation of the out-going Chairman as to the appointment of the new Chairman – as has the Triumvirate. If Mr. Raines' letter of recommendation names you, then your appointment is virtually assured. If, however…"

"Damn!" Lyle's open palm struck the desk a sharp and resounding blow that made the little woman jump. "There HAS to be a way…"

"I'm sorry," Cindy scooted her chair ever so slightly back and away from the desk – back and away from the simmering violence that was Mr. Lyle. "All I can tell you…"

Lyle got to his feet and simply stormed off, leaving the accountant breathless and thoroughly relieved that she'd managed to survive the encounter. Through the opening to her cubby, Cindy could see the sympathetic glances of her coworkers, people grateful that the cubby the Parker twin had barged into was hers rather than theirs.

Just because she was the stockholder liaison…

oOoOo

"Forehead was higher," Gimpy pointed out, stabbing a dirty finger at the computer screen. "No wrinkles either."

"What color were the eyes?" Ben Granville asked, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the odd smells wafting from the wretched-looking man sitting next to him.

"How the hell should I know?" the homeless man screeched and then looked up into the face of the Detective who had already given him a hot meal and a twenty dollar bill. "Tell him I wasn't trying to take in details…"

"Just do what you can to remember," Jarod patted Gimpy's shoulder and glanced in sympathy at Granville. "Anything else you can remember about this guy?"

"Yeah…" Gimpy said with a voice that told the police officers in the room that he was remembering the best he could. "Come to think of it… This guy had no thumb on his left hand."

"Oh?" Granville noted down the detail on the miscellaneous description area.

Jarod started and then stared a little harder at the composite that was staring out from the computer screen. If he didn't know better, adding the missing thumb to the face reminded him an awful lot of… Jarod blinked. It couldn't be! Lyle??

"What about the other guy?" Granville moved smoothly to print out copies of the first composite and get the unsavory witness thinking about the second man he'd seen.

If Jarod had had any doubts with the first composite, they vanished as the second face slowly emerged from the hesitant words and description. Within another half hour, he was staring at the face of Willy – Raines' personal sweeper.

"You're sure about this?" he demanded without shifting his gaze from the computer screen.

"Yup," Gimpy nodded and then pointed again. "That's the fella who come along and grabbed Booger from behind."

Jarod could feel the hackles rising on the back of his neck. The Centre was involved in this! Why?? What in God's name did they want in picking up homeless men – and did they realize they'd picked up someone NOT homeless or drunk?

oOoOo

Wednesday Evening

Angelo sat at the very end of a long ventilation duct, staring down into the silent and dimly lit office that had once been the personal domain of the Wheezing Man. Now the mind that had spat vile plots and even more vile memories into his head whenever Angelo came close was silent – although the frail and failing body itself continued to be kept alive by the machines.

He didn't need to wonder what was in the package he'd carried through the ducts. It was Daughter's crowning effort to wrench control of the Centre away from the No-Thumb man. Sydney hadn't had to do much talking before Angelo had been eager to climb back into the small metal tunnel and find Daughter and accept her task – Daughter BELONGED in Daddy's chair, not No-Thumb.

Angelo hated No-Thumb almost as much as he hated Wheezing Man – and feared him even more.

The grate on the air conditioning once more swung open on silent hinges, and Angelo carefully lowered himself to the floor. Angelo froze as the memories of this room bombarded him relentlessly – some long-silent voices raised in complaint or pleading, others cackling with perverse satisfaction or muttering with malevolent intent. He didn't like this room – and Daughter would discover that her voices didn't like it either, he was sure. Her voices were his own, after all…

It took effort to turn his mental ear from the screaming in his mind and move to behind the desk and then pull the huge leather chair from its customary spot so that he could get at the hinged carpeting. He sank to his knees and put the red document case on the floor and silently repeated the combination to himself as he spun the knob without needing to watch what he was doing. He KNEW when he'd gone far enough – and when the time came to twist the handle, the metal safe door easily lifted up, revealing the hole that was its interior.

Angelo didn't waste any time, but slipped the red document case back into the safe – putting it several layers deep beneath other papers whose purpose Angelo didn't want to know and so touched only briefly. He folded the safe door back down into the floor, spun the knob locking the safe once more, and then let the carpet segment fall back into its customary place. Angelo stood, toed the little silver metal ring back into its holder, and then moved the huge chair back into its place.

The little empath was half-way across the office floor toward the open vent grate when he turned and stared. On the desk, in full view, was a small, stonework paperweight in the shape of a hunched rabbit. Fascinated as if never having seen the object before, Angelo walked slowly back to the desk and picked it up – holding it to his chest. Daughter would want, he knew instinctively – hearing Wheezing Man's voice insisting that it remain on HIS desk since HE was Daughter's true father.

Angelo knew differently. But he also could feel the love with which Daughter had presented this little trifle to the man she'd long believed her father. There was no reason for it to remain here any longer – Daughter would want it for her home.

He slipped the little bit of stoneware into his pants pocket and scurried over to the open grate. Practice gave him the agility to pull himself back up into the grate without leaving a single mark on the wall, and a contortionist's flexibility allowed him to turn in the small and confined space so he could pull the grate closed once more. His task was done – and Daughter would understand that the rabbit on her desk was proof the task was done.

He smiled widely and began to move silently and quickly down the long, dark metal tunnel that was the warren he called home.

oOoOo

Jarod stared down at the cell phone in his hand, knowing the telephone number programmed into the number two spot on his speed dial was one he hadn't used for over five years. In all that time, he'd promised himself that there would never be a reason that he'd have to call that number again – he'd found his parents, spent a year and a half living with them and carefully reconstructing a family bond with them, then left live in the dorms and to go to med school, and finally launch out on his own into his own apartment. He'd put the Centre, Sydney and all of the nightmares behind him. He was happy, his own man, self-sufficient.

Until now.

Of course he had run up against mention of his old prison and the man who had been the closest thing to family during his years of complete freedom – the Centre somehow tried to maintain an aura of legitimacy and occasionally found itself and its cutting-edge research the topic of a news story or magazine article. Sydney himself was published – although not prolifically so – and Jarod had tripped often enough over a paper submitted to mainstream journals such as Psychology Today written in his old mentor's inimical style. Sydney's article had even proven the jumping-off point for the research paper that had been the crowning achievement of his med school career – and had been the reason he'd been hired by such a reputable teaching hospital as a psychiatric resident.

But now, Jarod was in the strange and very uncomfortable position of needing Sydney's advice and help – if such was even possible. Where Hank had been taken within the Centre complex of satellite facilities and dummy front firms was anybody's guess. The security protocols on the Centre mainframe had changed dramatically too – Broots was getting cagier and more adept at planting alarm flags at unexpected places within the routines. Jarod had backed out of the mainframe before he'd tripped one of those alarms and logged off, impressed and disquieted.

Jarod sighed deeply. Hank was a friend – a dear friend – almost a brother. And he was lost in the clutches of the Centre. There was no other option open to him at the moment. He pressed the number two button down until the familiar name appeared and then put the phone to his ear.

"This is Sydney," came a well-remembered and gently curious tone.

It was hard to speak for a moment. This was setting aside five years of anonymity. "Sydney?"

He heard a gasp and the sound of a chair scraping across linoleum – he must have caught Sydney at home, in his kitchen. "Jarod?"

"I need your help."

The long pause on the other end of the line was eloquent – unspoken "how are you's" and "I'm sorry's" echoed between the two men like bullets ricocheting in a metal box. Finally: "What do you want of me?"

Jarod closed his eyes and sent a sharp thought of gratitude to his mentor for knowing when to simply deal with the situation at hand. He'd have to make up for this abrupt disruption later on, when things weren't so desperate. "One of my friends has been kidnapped by the Centre."

"A friend?" Sydney's voice was mildly curious.

Jarod sighed. "He was doing research among the homeless…"

"Oh. That." Sydney's voice grew disgusted. "Parker and Broots have been looking into something that Mr. Cox and Lyle have been brewing – and we had considered that, with the name given the project, it might involve the homeless…"

"What project? What's it about?" Jarod demanded.

"Parker only had a project name – Hydra's Teeth – and memos back and forth among Raines, Cox and Lyle regarding a trip to New York a few days ago…"

"That's when Hank disappeared!" Jarod breathed. "What else do you know? Since when is Cox back in the Centre?"

Sydney's voice was gently chiding. "Operatives rarely ever truly leave the Centre, Jarod – you know that. Evidently Raines kept Cox on the payroll because this project promised to be a very lucrative affair."

"Raines…" Jarod's voice dripped with hatred, loathing, fear and repugnance. "Is he still…"

"No, he's not," Sydney answered the unfinished question. "He had a stroke a day or so ago – he's in a coma down in Renewal."

"So who's in charge now? Lyle, I suppose…"

Jarod heard Sydney sigh. "You aren't going to believe this…"


	5. Strategic Maneuvers

Chapter 5: Strategic Maneuvers

Thursday Morning

"Good morning, Broots."

The computer tech looked up from his monitor screen, his mouth still full of the extra-large bite of jellied donut he'd just stuffed into it. He chewed quickly and then swallowed hard to retrieve his speaking skills. "Sydney! You don't make it up here very often anymore – especially at this hour of the morning…"

"I know." The psychiatrist sauntered into the cubicle a little further. "It's a lapse that I've decided to remedy – starting this morning." He put out a hand with a Styrofoam cup. "I brought you some coffee – better than that swill they serve in the IT lounge, I'd imagine."

"Thanks." Broots gave the Belgian a sideways glance as he accepted the coffee and put it down on the desk. Reaching for the napkin sitting crumpled next to his keyboard, he commented. "But I'm betting this isn't exactly a social visit, is it?"

Sydney's brows rose, but he shook his head. "No, I suppose it isn't exactly a social call. I was wondering if you were still working with Miss Parker on that strange project you two were talking about the other day – something about Hydra's Teeth?"

Broots sighed and nodded. "I was just getting ready to do some dumpster diving into the bottom of the mainframe, courtesy of some new passwords Miss P. managed to unearth for me, for information on that and a few other crown jewels. If you're inquiring into it, I take it that you'd like a copy of the same info I give to her?"

"That would be very acceptable. Thank you." It took a moment for everything that Broots had told him to sink in – and then Sydney blinked. "Why on Earth is Miss Parker using potentially dangerous passwords to get into security levels above…"

Broots looked away back at his monitor and reached for the Styrofoam cup to take a long and apparently leisurely sip of coffee – it really WAS better than the swill served down in the IT lounge, he decided quickly – before answering. "You know that Mr. Raines… You know what happened, don't you?"

"That he collapsed? Yes, Broots – the Centre grapevine is not totally lacking tendrils that reach to the Sim Lab. I heard the news yesterday – not long after he collapsed, as a matter of fact." Sydney stifled his impatience. "That doesn't answer the question of just what Miss Parker is getting herself into this time, however."

Broots looked up into his old friend's face with an amazing lack of pretense. "You really don't want to know, Sydney."

The computer tech could almost see the wheels in his psychiatrist friend's eyes begin to spin at an amazing pace, quickly piecing together the sparse clues he'd been given. "You don't… She's going to…" Sydney gaped suddenly, and then snapped his mouth closed. "I thought she wanted OUT…"

Broots shrugged. Sydney was far more intuitive than any of them had ever given him credit for being – something that he suspected had been used in service to keeping Jarod free and away from the Centre until the Pretender was ready to disappear for good. Now he had nobody to practice his intuitive leaps of reasoning on but Miss Parker and HIM – and he really didn't want Sydney probing into his mind anymore than necessary. "She doesn't want Lyle in charge," he responded simply. "Do you?"

Sydney's glare needed no interpretation. "What do you think?" he snapped, his accent just a little more noticeable.

"Then certain steps need to be taken to make sure that when the Chairman IS appointed, it isn't Lyle, don't they?" Broots continued, not letting his friend's attitude become contagious.

"Lyle's DANGEROUS, Broots! If he found out what she's up to…"

Broots felt compelled to protect his boss. "She knows what she's doing, Sydney – and she even has the cover of the security update for any poking around the mainframe that gets done in the process." He sipped the coffee again and then put the cup back down next to the keyboard and reached for the remains of the donut. "Don't ask anymore questions, Sydney – you really don't want to know the answers."

"That's what she wanted Angelo for, wasn't it?" Sydney burst out suddenly, this new information shining new light on rather out-of-character behavior the day before.

Broots nodded. "That's part of it."

Sydney shook his head. Miss Parker had been walking a very fine line with both Mr. Raines and her diabolical twin since the suspension of the hunt for the Pretender – had Raines' collapse convinced her that it was time to make more overt and dangerous moves? "Just get me that information on Hydra's Teeth, Broots," Sydney sighed finally. "As soon as possible, please."

"Why do YOU want the information, Syd?" Broots asked, leaning back in his chair with his Styrofoam coffee cup cradled against his chest – glad to put the interrogator's hat on himself for a change. "Say - you don't have anything to do with what Mr. Cox is up to with that, do you?"

"I wouldn't have anything to do with anything that man is involved in," Sydney responded heatedly. "I've seen a few of his unclassified research reports – and I wonder just how much hyperbole he interjects into his data. Some of what he claims is virtually impossible to reproduce under controlled conditions…"

"That still doesn't answer my first question about why…"

Sydney glanced into Broots' face with a shuffle of what could either seem like guilt or hesitation. "Let's just say that I have an interested friend who needs information about some of the procedures that may have been implemented on that project…"

"When she finds out, Miss P. is going to wonder…" Broots began in a warning tone.

"But you don't even need to let her know that I asked you at all, do you?" Sydney countered in a conspiratorial voice. "And you can believe me that the information will not be going to anyone who will give away the fact that Miss Parker is looking into the project."

"If I don't tell her and she finds out anyway…"

"Then I'll deal with her – and I'll tell her I coerced you into giving me what I wanted." Sydney's voice had become almost hypnotic. "I really need to know what the hell that project is about, Broots. A man's life is on the line here."

Broots' jaw dropped for a moment. Then it snapped shut and he leaned forward again for the rest of his donut. "Anybody I know?"

"Broots!" Sydney was starting to sound frustrated.

"Sure, fine. Whatever. I'll give you whatever you want," Broots conceded with a defeated wave of the hand. "And if Miss P finds out, it will be on your head."

"I'll take full responsibility and keep your name completely out of it, I promise. It sounds like I need to talk to her anyway – to see if I can talk some sense into her." Sydney's hand landed warm and comfortingly on Broots' shoulder. "I appreciate this, Broots – I really do." The silvered head peered about to see if anybody was paying attention to his visit. "And now I'd best leave you to your work, before anybody begins to comment about my visit."

Broots watched Sydney's departure from the IT lab's main area with a look of consternation. Miss Parker WAS playing a dangerous game in trying to wrest control of the Centre from Lyle's grasp before it ever really settled there – and he shared Sydney's concern on that account. But what the hell was going on that EVERYBODY wanted to know that Hydra's Teeth was about? And why Sydney, of all people – and why now?

He sighed deeply and turned back to his computer. Somewhere in the mainframe he was about to plunder, he hoped there were some answers.

oOoOo

Jarod looked up at the clock on the wall and blinked. It was already seven-thirty in the morning, and his shift at the police station began at nine – he had better finish what he'd started and get moving. He looked back down at his computer screen with a guarded expression, and then hit the button to send the image there to his printer.

One of the few things that the Centre was not able to control – especially in the immediate vicinity of Blue Cove – was the law that said that all drivers had to have valid licenses issued by the State of Delaware. Lyle – or whatever the hell his name really was – could no more escape that bit of legal inconvenience than anyone else at the Centre. And here was proof. Staring out at him from the computer, Lyle's latest license portrait had a hard and determined look to it – as if the necessity was begrudged, and the adherence to the law very unwilling.

Lyle apparently hadn't changed much in the years since last Jarod had seen him – frantically running to follow his instructions to get a disabled air liner's electrical systems back up and running before the plane fell helplessly from the sky. Not a wrinkle, worry or laugh line marred that smooth, cunning face; and his hair was still quite dark and luxurious.

How many more people have you tortured and killed, you bastard, Jarod thought at the face before him. Why in the hell were you after homeless men – and why in the hell did you have to pick on MY friend?

Jarod checked to see that the image had printed properly before pushing a button and logging out of the Delaware database of driver's license information before his stomach could twist any further into knots. He didn't need to get himself all riled up when he was going to be introducing his own gut-instinct evidence into the case and hoping to get away with it. And he had better get moving – the cross-town commute was a crunch at this hour. In one smooth move, he had the various documents he'd printed out of the printer, folded and slipped into his shirt pocket.

His hand was just reaching for the doorknob when his cell phone began to chirp in his pocket. He quickly pulled it out, his brows furling together when he caught sight of the identity of the caller, and then put the device to his ear. "And good morning to you, Maricela…"

"Jarod." Sanchez's voice was tight and obviously worried. "Have you had any news?"

"Not yet – and I need to get going so that I can keep an appointment in regards to finding Hank, so…"

"You will call if you hear anything, won't you?" Her voice took on a pleading tone that made Jarod halt in his tracks.

"Of course I will, but…" Jarod searched for the right way to ask the question. "Is there something you're not telling me about you and Hank?"

Sanchez sighed. "Not me – my sister. He's been seeing Gloria – and they were beginning to get serious. Now she's grilling me every night – because evidently he was supposed to be calling HER too…"

Jarod sighed in sympathy. "Look – as soon as I know anything, I'll be passing it on to both you and Hank's mom. But I REALLY gotta go now…" He twisted his other wrist so he could check his watch. "I'm gonna be late!"

From the somewhat mumbled goodbye, Jarod could tell that Sanchez was truly upset by Hank's disappearance – and knowing that Hank was getting cozy with cute little Gloria certainly helped explain that. But he couldn't waste time speculating on who else Hank may have said he'd call – he had a photograph to show to his captain alongside the sketch of the suspected kidnapper. It was time to put matters into motion and begin the move on the Centre stronghold where Hank was probably a resident – maybe even in his old cell...

He shuddered. He couldn't think of Hank's condition right now. He pulled the apartment door open and then slipped his key into both the knob lock and a deadbolt before hurrying down the corridor toward the stairs.

oOoOo

Mr. Cox watched as his second test subject began to respond as desired to the intensive brainwashing technique. The previous levels of intoxicants in the man's bloodstream seemed not to be either inhibiting or enhancing the effects of the Hydra regimen, although the sense of self-identity that the first had had so strongly in place seemed much easier to break through this time. He noted down his observation on the legal pad in front of him, determined to make sure that the idea was entered into the current set of research notes due on Mr. Raines' desk by the end of the day, and then gestured to one of the watching sweepers. "Tell Dr. Hardt to go ahead and begin prepping another of our clients for the procedure."

"How's it going?" came Lyle's insolent voice from the doorway to the observation room – a door that Mr. Cox had been certain was closed to the outside.

"Well enough," Cox replied, turning back to watch his current subject and hoping the younger man would take the rather obvious hint that his presence wasn't welcome.

"Well enough that we can take the testing to the next phase?" Lyle pressed, stepping further into the enigmatic South African's lair.

Mr. Cox raised his eyes to Lyle with his brows slightly raised. "The next phase?" he repeated in confusion.

"We're training these folks to be disposable assassins, are we not?" Lyle smiled knowingly. "Assassins that blend into the common people well enough that they can get close – and then be disposable once their task is carried out?"

"Ye…yes…" Mr. Cox frowned now. Something in Lyle's voice told him that he wasn't going to like the request that was on the horizon.

"I have need of someone matching that job description, so I was thinking…"

"Now just you wait here!" Mr. Cox snapped. "I have yet to tender my preliminary findings for this latest test to Mr. Raines for evaluation. Until I hear from him…"

Lyle actually snickered. "That will be interesting – and impossible, at the moment…"

"What?" Now Mr. Cox was confused as well as riled. "What are you talking about?"

"Mr. Raines is currently inhabiting a bed in the Renewal Wing – his brain turned to Silly Putty from a stroke. Your report should be coming to ME from now on…" Lyle continued with blue-grey that snapped in response. "And I will be the one to decide…"

"Have you been appointed Chairman yet?" Mr. Cox gaped. "If I call my contacts at the Triumvirate…"

"You know as well as I that Mr. Raines MUST have named me as his desired successor. There IS nobody else…"

"Miss Parker…" Mr. Cox offered lamely, only to cringe as Lyle gave him a sarcastic glare.

"Do you REALLY see Mr. Raines handing over control of the Centre and everything it stands for to HER?" Mr. Cox had no answer to that, and Lyle pressed his advantage. "I need to make SURE that Mr. Raines' obvious wishes are respected. Give me the first graduate of your current test phase."

Mr. Cox's eyebrows climbed most of the way to his hairline. "For what purpose?"

"You said it yourself," Lyle shrugged with deceptive calmness. "There is only one other possible candidate for the Chairmanship. I mean to see to it that candidate is removed from consideration." He smiled coldly. "Permanently."

oOoOo

Thursday Afternoon

"You're sure?" Jarod pushed the quartet of photographs just a little closer under the nose of Gimpy when the tattered-looking man looked to be ready to take another swig from whatever the brown paper bag was hiding. He ignored the quick glance of irritation and merely shook the page again so that Gimpy would glance down at it again.

"I'm sure," Gimpy grumbled in a slurred voice and stabbed at the reduced photo of Lyle with a careless finger. "Thass th' guy."

Jarod straightened triumphantly. "If and when we catch this guy, you realize you'll be required to come down to the station and identify him again, right?"

Gimpy merely gestured vaguely with his brown paper bag. "Wattever. Now, c'n a guy drink in peace aroun' 'ere?" He gazed up in bleary belligerence.

Jarod patted the homeless man on the shoulder and walked briskly over to his car. It was time to tip his hand to the police captain and see just whether or not he'd be able to get the kind of backing he'd need. As he nosed the police sedan back out into traffic and turned the corner that would begin the trek back to the precinct, he glanced down at the photo line-up he'd assembled and snorted as he shook his head.

All four of the men looked similar – dark hair, clean-shaven. And yet, even among virtual look-alikes, Lyle's photo just had a quality about it that made it stand out. Was that because he knew the evil that lurked behind that otherwise nondescript face, he wondered? No, it couldn't be – Gimpy hadn't taken much time at all looking at the others before his finger had poked clumsily at the picture of Lyle.

His sense of accomplishment and satisfaction carried him all the way from the parking garage to the glassed doorway of the captain. One quick and sharp rap on the glass had the captain looking up and then waving his newest detective in. "What is it, Holmes?"

"We have a positive ID on one of the kidnappers, sir," Jarod announced as he placed the photo of Lyle on the desk in front of the police superior – the one he'd downloaded along with the most recently registered pertinent information from the Delaware Motor Vehicles website. "If this is right, then those men who are missing have been transported across state lines."

"Lyle Parker," DiAngelo read from the paper and then compared the photograph to the sketch artist's rendering of the eye witness description. "What do we know about this character that makes you think we're dealing with something bigger than just our jurisdiction?"

Jarod was prepared. The Centre had very proudly put Lyle's photograph on its website, declaring him the "Assistant to the Chairman" directly below a similar photo of Mr. William Raines – and the site had the address of the Centre facility in Blue Cove at the bottom of the page, along with the translucent image of the huge facility as the background. This was the page he handed to the captain next. "This character seems to be a rather major mover in this organization – not one to be found doing strong-arm jobs," he hedged, knowing that his captain would be thinking the very same thing within a very short time and reasoning it would be better to address it himself rather than be tripped by it. "It makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

DiAngelo nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "From the looks of the place, we may be going up against some big money – your witness is SURE this is the guy?"

"Picked him out of a photo line-up without working at it very hard," Jarod assured him. "Why?"

"If this involves interstate action, it means calling in the FBI – and I'm going to have to kick this to the A.D.A. before I make that phone call." DiAngelo shoved the photo and the information sheets into a folder, which he then dropped on his desk. "What about the other guy?"

"My witness wasn't quite so clear on that description," Jarod grimaced – knowing full well from the "African-American" and "big" and "mean-looking" that Gimpy could only be referring to Raines' pet sweeper Willy. "I'm still working on that one."

"Fine, you keep working on it," the captain said with a wave of his hand. "I'll let you know what Sheridan in the D.A.'s office has to say about the FBI and tackling Delaware."

Jarod nodded and walked from the office thoughtfully. He had the beginnings of his proof – but he'd need more. Something more concrete than a witness ID of a suspect. Maybe a license number of the van – or a better description of Willy and a corroborative description of Lyle?

He reached down and grabbed his jacket on his way toward the door. Perhaps someone at one of the other shelters might have seen something along that line. And proof that this was a more generalized crime spree might help kick loose some cooperation from the District Attorney's office – although there was a chance that he might have to go to the news media to get the kind of ear he'd need to spur legal action against Blue Cove.

He had his work cut out for him, that was for sure – and unlike his Pretends in the past, he was having to run this one by the seat of his pants!

oOoOo

"So just exactly what is it you want me to do with him?" Willy asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the one-way glass window that separated himself and Lyle from the hospital-gowned man sitting motionless on the chair in the next room.

"I want him instructed on the use of a rifle as quickly as possible," Lyle answered with a deadly calm voice. "I want him proficient as a marksman and ready for deployment. If it helps any…" He pulled a small syringe case and a key from his suit jacket pocket and held it out. "This injection should help make sure the information gets assimilated faster. As for the key, it's to a locker in the maintenance station at the far north end of this sublevel. In it, you'll find supplies that will assist in the training of our friend here to recognize friend from target – courtesy of left-over supplies from Mr. Raines."

"I don't like it," Willy announced flatly. "You don't teach someone to be a marksman in just a day or so."

"Mr. Cox's process is supposed to open our test subjects up to exactly that kind of learning curve," Lyle told him with a scowl. "And since Mr. Raines – and soon I – will be depending on this project for our future financial security, I want to push the envelope as far as I can to see the capabilities and weaknesses. That man…" He pointed at the one-way glass. "…will remove the only obstacle to our ability to reclaim our prestige and power among the R&D elite in the world."

"And just what obstacle is that?" Willy demanded without moving, crossing his arms over his chest. "Or should I ask WHO is it that is the obstacle?"

"My sister," Lyle answered simply. "When Dad… and Mr. Parker… were alive, it was convenient to keep her underfoot and controlled. But now…"

"But now she's an inconvenience," Willy finished for him, understanding at last. "And you intend to put her out of your misery."

Lyle's face crinkled in a cold smile. "I like the way you put that." A hand landed on Willy's forearm. "Just do as I ask, and make a success of this project, and your place at my side is assured."

Willy slowly accepted the syringe case and the key, and Lyle turned on his heel the moment the two items were received. "I expect to be hearing good news about our friend's accomplishments in very short order, is that understood?" he frowned at the big sweeper.

Willy turned and stared at the motionless man in the hospital gown. "He'll need clothes," he stated almost as an afterthought. "I'm not teaching a man in a back-drafty hospital gown how to shoot a rifle."

Lyle barely hesitated at the door. "Talk to supply – get him issued a set of drabs – but get to work and give me a trained assassin as quickly as humanly possible."

The tall African American waited for a moment to give Lyle a chance to clear out of the corridor before leaving the room and heading for the telephone set mounted into the wall of the hallway. He punched an extension, waited for a moment for a voice to answer the other end of the line, and then placed an order for a complete set of Centre fatigues to be delivered to the observation room as soon as possible. That done, he headed down the corridor and around the corner and down the corridor heading north.

The maintenance station on each sublevel was located at the far end, and the key was needed to unlock the doorknob. Flicking on the light, Willy looked about the small room with intent – and his ebony eyes quickly located the locker in a far corner, almost hidden behind shelves of various supplies and cleaning materials. Once more, the key was inserted into the lock, and it turned easily. He lifted the latch and pulled the narrow locker door open and stared inside at what was stored there. His eyes grew hard as he drew out the single item the locker contained and stood it up before him and stepped back.

It had obviously been used as a target once before – and only the sharpest of eyes could tell that the person it represented was not Miss Parker, but her look-alike mother. Not that the man who would be wielding the rifle would be able to tell the difference, though… Willy closed the locker and picked up the life-sized cardboard representation and tucked it under an arm for ease of carrying.

He stopped another sweeper – a young man with no permanent assignment yet – and directed him to take the target and set it up in the shooting range two levels up and then wait there for further instructions. Then he went back into the observation room and picked up the small stack of clothing that had been left there for him – and finally pushed open the door into the next room.

"Put these on," he said tersely to the formerly obstructive homeless man and tossed the clothing on the man's lap. "I have a new task for you to do."

oOoOo

Identical hazel eyes watched dispassionately as Sydney noted down the latest results of the experiment with a pair of otherwise unrelated children. Sydney could never tell with Elise and Elsie – they had been wards of the Centre for most of their lives, although they ostensibly were fostered by a couple who both worked for the Centre and lived their lives outside the dim, grey cement walls of the underground facility proper. They and he had met several times over their short lives, each time to probe into their slowly increasing ability to know exactly what the other was doing and feeling and thinking and saying. To what use their uncanny and malleable talent might be put ultimately was a consideration that Sydney didn't like to think about often – although he never failed to try to give a caring and human face to that part of the Centre that he represented.

Elise and Elsie reminded him of the other children who, in their turn, had come under his supervision over the years – Angelo, Miss Parker, Jarod, even Gemini for a very short time – and now, as then, he felt the weight of that responsibility keenly. If he had any kind of conscience, he would be making covert motions to free these new children from their Centre overlord and find them a real life. Sydney sighed. At eight years old now, he wondered if, once more, he'd waited too long to take action.

One of his former charges needed at least to be spoken to – before she did something either incredibly dangerous or incredibly self-destructive. And he was even more certain that the time had long since past when he could speak to her and have her actually give him a reasonable hearing.

But he still had to try.

"Verrrry good, girls!" he smiled at the twins. "We'll leave things there for the day and pick up in the same place when I see you tomorrow."

"OK," Elise answered, putting her pencil down in the prescribed place on the table in front of her.

"We'll see you tomorrow, Dr. Sydney," Elsie finished for her sister, mirroring the action of carefully putting the pencil down.

Sydney gestured to his lab sweeper. "Charlie will take you to the cafeteria for a nice hot chocolate while you wait for your parents," he announce, once more pulling out his wallet and handing the sweeper money.

"Can we…" Elsie began.

"Have ice cream instead?" Elise finished.

Sydney nodded with a gentle smile. "You can get whatever you want," he replied, his eyes telling the sweeper to make sure that they did. "And thank you again. You did a verrrry good job today."

The twins each lifted a right hand in a quick wave, and then linked hands and let themselves be steered through the Sim Lab door by a sweeper with a hand on each shoulder. Sydney unclipped his page of notes and shuffled tiredly to his office to drop the notes next to his computer terminal. He'd have a very interesting report to type in a day or so, if the testing results continued at the same level. It was something he looked forward to completing once and for all. But that would be for later – right now, he had a far more complicated task to perform.

The elevator trip from the Sim Lab to the second story of the Tower, where Miss Parker had her office, took much less time than he'd hoped. Then again, he knew that there was no way for him to truly prepare himself for her possible reactions to what he had to say. As the years had passed, Miss Parker had developed a very volatile temper – and a distinct aversion to anything that remotely resembled parental advise or counsel. That he had something important to say couldn't be ignored – as the only person who seemed to have any concerns on her behalf except Broots, who continued completely cowed by her, it fell to HIM to put the truth where it needed to be.

And suffer the consequences.

"Is she in?" he asked the nondescript and obviously overworked secretary in the outer office.

"She's busy with the…" the secretary began, only to look up from her typing to see that the familiar visitor to her boss' office had already stepped past her and up to the door. "I don't think…"

Sydney ignored the secretary and opened the door, knocking on it as he did. "Parker, do you have a moment?"

Miss Parker didn't even look up from her computer screen – she merely gestured for him to come further into the room as her eyes continued to take in the implications of the project prospectus she'd been reading. "This one would probably be of interest to you, Syd," she commented off-handedly. "Seems that Raines managed to discover a very interesting set of twins who have a very strong psychic link. He's filed a prospectus with the Triumvirate to use their connection in regards to the stock market – to train one of the girls to be a stock analyst – and the other to be an accountant with buying and selling of stocks and options…"

Sydney hesitated as he went to sit down in a chair in front of her desk. "I suspected something of the sort," he admitted wryly, "but I couldn't figure out the actual scam that was being considered."

That brought Miss Parker's head up, grey eyes diving into his chestnut gaze relentlessly. "You know the twins?"

He nodded. "I'm the shrink with the research on the "human bookends", as you call them, remember?"

Miss Parker cast her mind back to the last time she had been in the Sim Lab – and the little girls with whom he'd been working. "What are you going to do?" she asked carefully.

Sydney lifted his head and gazed back evenly. "As a matter of fact, that's a very similar question to the one I was wanting to ask you."

"What do you mean?" she countered, leaning back in her chair almost defiantly.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together. "Now that Mr. Raines is virtually out of the picture…"

"Sydney…" This wasn't anything she wanted to hear. "Stay out of it."

"I can't, Parker," he retorted and frowned. "I promised your mother years ago that I'd watch over you – and…"

"Your concern is noted, then," Miss Parker told him in clipped tones. "You've done your job, Freud. You can go back to your Sim Lab and your little bookends…"

"Parker!" Sydney rarely raised his voice – and the volume coupled with the frustration cut her off effectively. "You told me once that you wanted out – that all you wanted was to be free to walk away from the Centre." He threw his hands up. "What you're doing now is an invitation for Lyle to bury you here – down deep somewhere so that nobody will ever find you."

"Only if he becomes Chairman, Syd," she shook her head at him. "Can't you see? I'm finally in a position to do what my mother was never able to do – turn the Centre around and make it be the kind of place that does GOOD in the world."

"Lyle will go to just about any length to keep you from accomplishing that," Sydney reminded her pointedly.

"Yeah?" She lifted her chin in defiance. "Well, there are few lengths to which I won't go to make sure he doesn't get anywhere – up to and including making sure that he isn't the only one that knows where all the skeletons are buried here. Right now, that includes uncovering exactly what projects are up and running, whether they have the official sanction of the Triumvirate…"

"Including that strange project about which you were asking me the other day?" Sydney asked, making sure his interest didn't seem too acute to call too much notice to his question.

"Yes," she nodded quickly, "including that one. Seems Lyle and Willy went on a collection spree the day that Raines collapsed – and brought Cox a few men whose presence wouldn't be missed by anybody." She shrugged. "We've uncovered the list of drugs that the process he's experimenting with is using – but still nothing about the ultimate goal."

"What about the other projects, Parker?" Sydney decided press on with another tack – leave the queries about the Hydra project for Broots to answer eventually. "You'd be needing the kind of security access that you'd never be able to get…"

She waved a hand in the air, dismissing his point. "I have that covered, Syd. I had to go through Raines' office when his brain turned to corn meal mush – remember? Interesting reading, some of that…"

Sydney's mouth dropped open. "The Triumvirate…"

"Will never know," she finished for him with a firm note of determination. "I'd love to continue with this little chat – but I have work to do." She turned back to her monitor screen. "I appreciate your warning – and I'll take it under advisement."

Sydney rose – he knew when she was ready to close the walls in and simply stop responding to him, or worse. "I can't see where getting yourself killed – or worse – would get finishing what your mother started any closer to being accomplished…"

Grey eyes snapped at him over the top of her flat panel. "I said I appreciate the warning, Syd. Please don't force me to ask Sam to escort you out…"

The Belgian sighed and turned away, feeling as if he'd just done battle with a windmill and come out bruised and tattered.

"Syd?"

He was almost at the door and turned to look at her. "Yes?"

"Tell Broots he's SO dead if he doesn't get his act together and get me what I asked him for." And with that, her attention dropped away from him entirely.

Sydney ran his hand over his face as soon as he heard the office door close behind him. He'd pass on the message to Broots – and he'd see just exactly what kind of inspiration would come to him as to how to pry his current set of twins away from the Centre intrigue that would engulf and overwhelm them soon.

As for Miss Parker, all he could do is be prepared to help her cope with whatever consequences her actions set in motion – and pray those consequences didn't kill her.

oOoOo

Willy handed the rifle to Hank. "To chamber a round…"

Hank reached up and worked the lever with the smoothness and ease of someone who had handled firearms before. "I know how to do that," he responded in a lifeless tone.

Yes, you do, Willy thought with some relief. "But can you shoot – and hit what you're aiming at?" he countered challengingly.

"Depends." The man's gaze moved to his African-American trainer's face and stayed there without a flicker of emotion or expression. "Just what is it you want me shoot AT?"

"That." Willy's finger was extended to the target sitting halfway down the line of the shooting range.

Hank raised the rifle, took aim and squeezed the trigger gently. He rocked back with the motion of someone who knew what he was doing. Willy nodded in approval and then took up the binoculars to check on the accuracy of the shot – and then slowly put the binoculars down to stare at the nameless homeless man.

The cardboard representation of Catherine/Miss Parker now had a round hole right between the finely manicured eyebrows.

"Does it bother you to have a person to shoot at?" Willy asked in surprise.

Hank's dead eyes looked up at him again. "Should it?" was the casual response.

Willy felt a slight chill run down his spine. There was little doubt that the moment Lyle got his hands on this "disposable assassin", his sister's hours were numbered.


	6. Touché

Chapter 6 – Touché

Friday morning

Frank Hissop was a former military man – this was obvious from his posture and bearing – and a very observant man too. Jarod felt himself relax slightly as Hissop's finger immediately and without any hesitation at all landed on the photo of Lyle that stared out from amid four other similar faces culled from the mug shot book.

"You're sure?" Jarod asked, waiting for a moment for confirmation before folding the plastic sheet holding the five photos and slipping it back into the inside jacket breast pocket. "You're sure this is the man?"

"Absolutely," Hissop answered with a frown. "He and his friend were driving a black van – and I saw them park and just watch as my residents left for the morning. This fellow climbed out the moment he saw Skip come down the stairs, and before I could do or say anything, had him convinced to go to the back of the van." The thick brows worked expressively. "Skip was a simple soul – he'd do just about anything he was told just to please a person…"

"You didn't by any chance get the license number of the van, did you?" Jarod asked hopefully.

Hissop's face cracked into a satisfied smile. "You damned right I did," he exclaimed and bent down behind the counter for a moment, returning with a small notepad upon which a series of letters and numbers were inscribed. "Something inside me told me that there was something fishy going on – and that I needed to be prepared." He tore the top page off and handed it to Jarod without hesitation. "Just what the hell was going on, anyway?"

"We're not exactly sure, sir," Jarod prevaricated as he folded the paper and slipped it into his breast pocket, "but your shelter wasn't the only one that these men visited – and we're suspecting that this Skip you speak of wasn't the only shelter resident lured to the back of the van."

"God! Whatever would they want with the likes of…"

"Thank you so much for your help," Jarod put out his hand and shook the shelter manager's hand, not surprised by either the strength or the steadiness of the grip. "I'll be back in touch with you – we'll need a statement from you to assist us in knowing how to steer the investigation."

Hissop nodded. "You just tell me when and where – and if necessary, I'll lock this place down to make the appointment." His face folded into a frown of frustration. "I just hate it when folks take the homeless for granted – or worse, think they're nothing but garbage to be ignored or thrown away."

"I'm sure there are many who appreciate your attitude," Jarod told him sincerely and then raised his hand in farewell. "Thanks again, Mr. Hissop."

"I hope you catch that scumbag," he heard the manager call out to him as he walked toward the door of the shelter.

Jarod's face folded into a grim smile of satisfaction. "With your help getting the FBI involved, my friend, we may just stand a decent chance of doing just that."

He unlocked his car door, sat down, pulled out his notepad and put a check next to the "Hissop" on the front page, then glanced at the next name on the list to remind himself. "I wonder if you will remember anything, Mr. Romero," Jarod muttered to himself as he inserted the key into the ignition and started up the engine.

oOoOo

Miss Parker looked up as a pile of file folders landed on her desk, frowning when she saw that it was Broots and that he'd not knocked or let her know that he was there. "What?" she demanded sharply.

"You're going to love these," Broots sighed tiredly and settled himself into the chair in front of her desk. "It took me the better part of the night and part of this morning to get everything copied off to hardcopy before Mr. Lyle takes it in his head to do some data housekeeping."

"Project Midnight?" she read from the handwritten label on the first folder.

"Is an aerosol drug that is to be used in conjunction with intensive interrogation as a psychological tool. Sprayed into the face, it induces blindness." Broots' face showed his disapproval clearly.

Miss Parker was shocked. "Temporary?" she gaped.

"It depends on how much is absorbed into the eye itself," Broots answered, not really wanting to remember the details of that particular project. "The more that is absorbed, the more likely it will be that the blindness will be permanent – or at least, very long lasting."

"God!" Miss Parker shook her head. "Which monster did we develop THAT one for?"

"There's a General Hammond at Langley who was the contact liaison for the US Army Special Forces. And, at the end, there's a shipment invoice for ten cases of the stuff – some of it going to Iraq, and some more to Guantanamo."

She stared at her tech. No wonder he was both tired and disgusted. Just the little bit he'd told her had turned her stomach. "And the others?"

Broots shook his head. "More of the same. Some of it bearing Triumvirate seals of approval – but some of it definitely going against their wishes. The bottom folder is nothing but memos between Mr. Raines and Mr. Lyle about ways to circumvent the directives of the Triumvirate – and which projects needed that kind of strategy."

"How many of those projects are in this stack?" she asked, putting her hand on top of the pile of file folders.

"Those are just the active projects, Miss Parker. Some of the memos talk about projects that were completed – talking about ways to KEEP them secret from either the Triumvirate or some of our other clients." Broots yawned and then rose. "I'm heading down to the cafeteria. I need some coffee – and I need something other than the mud in the lounge. Can I get you anything?"

Miss Parker shook her head. "You go on. I need to check in on our security arrangements – make sure there haven't been any unauthorized entries into either Daddy's old office or the SIS office." She waved him on after a quick, assessing gaze. "You look beat."

"I bet you'll feel as beat as I do when you read what I've been reading for the past couple of days," Broots warned her. "See you later, Miss Parker."

She merely nodded, already pulling open her top desk drawer to remove the tiny key that locked her bottom drawer. Quickly she got the drawer open and slid the file folders into the wooden container, then closed and locked the drawer again. She got to her feet and, after slipping the little key into her suit pocket, walked briskly across the office.

"I'm out – and nobody's to go in there if I'm not there," she directed to her secretary. "If anybody gives you trouble, call Sam."

"Yes, Miss Parker," the soft-spoken woman replied, her eyes resting nervously on her boss. She didn't dare ask Miss Parker why anybody would want entrance to her office if she wasn't there – she had a sneaking suspicion the answer to that question might make her reconsider her current employment status.

Miss Parker's first stop was her father's old office. The sentinels she'd set before the glass doors were there just as she'd left them. "Any trouble?" she asked after checking to make sure the etched glass doors were still tightly locked.

"No, ma'am," the taller and older sweeper, a man by the name of Ben answered immediately, "and nothing for the night shift either."

"Good," she nodded contentedly. "Be sure to call the moment anyone tries, is that clear?"

"Yes, Miss Parker."

Just then, the cell phone in her pocket with the key to her desk decided to begin to chirp insistently at her. With a scowl, she fished the device out and pressed it to her ear. "What?"

"Mr. Lyle is trying to access the SIS office, Miss Parker," Sam's voice reported to her in brusque tones.

"On my way." Miss Parker was already moving, and thrust the deactivated phone back in her pocket to punch at the elevator button.

oOoOo

Angelo sat inside the vent and rocked back and forth disconsolately, buffeted by the thoughts and feelings spewing at him from the two men in the room just a few feet away. It wasn't that the sound of gunfire bothered him so much as it was the very idea of who the intended target was.

It wasn't even that the man with the gun had murderous thoughts – actually, there was very little thinking happening in that man. His mind was blank – although there were very tiny whispers as if the person were being smothered behind a thick, heavy pillow. No, the worst of the thoughts came from the Dark Man who used to spend all his time with the Wheezing Man.

Angelo had glanced out once, just to see for himself, and then recoiled at the sight of the Empty Mind Man calmly raising a rifle and taking aim at Daughter – only it wasn't Daughter really. The intent of the target practice was clear – Daughter was in danger. Dark Man was following the order of No-Thumb, and was teaching Empty Mind to kill Daughter. And only Angelo, of all her friends and allies, knew of the danger that was about to close in around her.

He had to tell her!

oOoOo

Captain DiAngelo's head slowly nodded up and down as he listened to Jarod Holmes rattle off the names of those witnesses who were willing to come in and give statements that corroborated various pieces of the story the homeless man had told. The only difference - and the most disturbing fact – was that the locales from which those parts and pieces of collaboration were coming were so widespread. When Jarod finished, he gazed up at his guest detective with open respect. "It looks as if you were right – and we've got something much bigger than anybody would have thought."

"I ran the license number that Mr. Hissop from the Sisters of Mercy Mission gave me – Delaware plates, incidentally – and I give you two guesses what corporation has a van with that license number registered to it?"

"The Centre in Blue Cove, right?" DiAngelo answered.

"You got it," Jarod exclaimed triumphantly. "So what now?"

"Now you go out and make arrangements for all of these witnesses of yours to come down here and sign statements regarding what they saw – while I get on the horn with the District Attorney's office and have them call in the FBI," DiAngelo directed. "And good work, Holmes."

"Thank you, sir," Jarod felt almost vindicated. "I'll have my report for you in an hour or so – and I'll see if I can get the witnesses' statements before our friends from the Fed get here."

DiAngelo waved him out and immediately reached for the telephone.

Jarod headed back to his desk with determination. He had contact telephone numbers for all but Gimpy and another shelter resident by the name of Clyde – and Gimpy had already given and signed a statement. The actual report wouldn't take long to draft – as it was just a more narrative form of the notes he'd taken while interviewing his witnesses. There would be only one hole in the entire story – and that was how he had managed to make the leap between a police artist sketch and a Delaware driver's license photograph. With any luck, considering the evidence beginning to pile up against Lyle, there wouldn't be many needing or wanting to know just how he'd known where to look.

He sat down and breathed out a sigh of relief. Without a doubt, he'd found the person responsible and brought in the kind of authorities that would have the standing to bring Lyle to justice. When the witnesses' statements were all signed and the report was sitting on Captain DiAngelo's desk, it would be just about time for Jarod Holmes to fade back into the woodwork.

Then Jarod Russell would be able to place calls to Mrs. Kellogg and to Maricela Sanchez, letting them know that there was a viable suspect being openly sought at last. He could go back to being a psychiatric resident, on the cusp of doing his final thesis paper and then standing for his certification as a psychiatrist.

There was light at the end of the tunnel at last. With any luck, they'd find Hank before the light in his tunnel was completely extinguished by the Centre.

oOoOo

"Let me go!" Lyle hissed at the sweeper who had all too easily gained the upper hand and now had his arm twisted painfully against his back and was pulling the helpless hand toward the shoulder blade. "Don't you know who…"

"Lyle!" Miss Parker's bark was sharp and strident and cut through his complaint like a knife. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"I have legitimate business in that office," Lyle exclaimed angrily and once more tried to wrench free from the intractable hold of the sweeper. "Tell your goon to back off, Parker, or so help me…"

"You know the policy," Miss Parker answered with a smug voice. "Until the stockholder's meeting, neither of us are to have access to either the Chairman's office in the tower OR to the materials in the safe here." Her eyes narrowed. "Or did you forget to read that section of the Employee Handbook?"

Lyle simply stood and stared daggers at his sister until, with a quick jerk of the nose, Miss Parker signaled to the sweeper to loosen his hold on her twin. With exaggerated aplomb, he straightened his jacket and adjusted his collar. "You're pushing it, Parker…"

"It isn't me who's pushing things, Lyle," she hissed back. "For the time being, this office and everything in it is off-limits – to you, to me, to Sam, to Mr. Adin, even to the janitor. This office, and the office upstairs, does NOT get unlocked again until the day of the stockholder's meeting – and even then, no one person goes in here alone."

"You'll regret this," Lyle threatened with narrowed eyes. "When I'm Chairman…"

"IF you ever become Chairman, you mean," Miss Parker corrected him rudely.

"…I won't forget this insolence…" Lyle finished his statement.

Miss Parker made a rather good show of checking her wristwatch. "By the way," she commented in an off-handed manner, "I'm noting down the day and time that you tried to circumvent process – and I'll be presenting it to the stockholders at the meeting."

Lyle's eyes widened, and then narrowed again. "And I'll be presenting evidence that you have been poking around in corners of the mainframe…"

"As you know, Mr. Raines had ordered another Security Systems Update just before he collapsed," Miss Parker grinned at him. "Would you like to see the signed order that hit my desk – the one with YOUR signature on it as well?"

Thwarted about as completely as he'd ever been, Lyle's face grew red just before he pushed violently past the sweeper that had been holding him in custody. Miss Parker watched with a neutral expression as he punched the button to summon the elevator and then turned to glare daggers at her. She turned back to the sweeper again only after the silver doors had slid closed and hidden the furious face from view.

"I want a sign posted there," she ordered, pointing, "that declares the back end of this corridor complete off limits to everyone being officially opened as a prelude to the stockholder's meeting. I want anybody who even THINKS of trying to get past that sign – much less your team – shot on sight, regardless of who they are or what position they hold. I want ME shot on sight if I try to get past you before Tuesday. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am!" The sweeper nodded solemnly – and Miss Parker knew that he would have no qualms in carrying out the order.

"The only people to be allowed down here are to be myself, Mr. Lyle, Mr. Adin and a representative of the stockholders – together, not separately – and that only on Tuesday morning before the meeting."

"Understood, Miss Parker. Nobody will get past us," the sweeper swore, his dark eyes clear and determined.

"Good." Miss Parker nodded. It took work to restrain the smirk until she was out of view of the sweeper. Lyle was floundering, and she was keeping him on a very short leash. Four days down, four days to go, she comforted herself as she pushed the elevator button. Now all she had to do was keep things at status quo – and then be ready to take full charge and deal with Lyle once and for all once she was named to the Chairmanship.

She was looking forward to that.

oOoOo

"Is this all of it?" Sydney gazed with trepidation at the slim size of the file folder that Broots had deposited on the desk.

"Believe me, there's plenty there, Sydney," the balding technician assured his friend. "The whole idea is to create an army of disposable assassins, using people who are society's discards and brainwashing them. Ideally, nobody would miss any of them – and they could be trained to just blend into the scenery wherever they were employed…"

"Assassins!" Sydney felt his heart sink.

"From the memos back and forth from Mr. Raines to Mr. Cox, it's pretty obvious that Raines was going to be pinning the future financial security of the Centre on producing these faceless, disposable assassins for sale and use all over." Broots shuddered and then peered at his old friend curiously. "Does this help out this friend of yours at all?"

Sydney nodded slowly. "It helps, although it won't be much of a comfort," he said slowly. "Is there any indication of where the human test subjects were going to be housed or processed?"

"Well," Broots hedged a little, "Mr. Cox has been maintaining a laboratory down on SL-27…"

"SL-27!!" Sydney gaped with a sick knot in his stomach. So many horrible things had been done down there…

"…and it stands to reason that any testing is most likely taking place there." He sighed. "As for where to house kidnap victims, where did they use to keep Jarod when he was here?"

Sydney glanced at his old friend sharply. The question was made with no obvious agenda to wound, but being reminded of the many years Jarod had been imprisoned in the underground facility was to face an internal indictment. "I suppose I could start looking there," he nodded and pulled the file folder toward him. "Thank you, Broots. I owe you."

"Just be glad Miss Parker was more concerned with security matters this morning than wondering why there was one file folder that I didn't put on HER desk when I was there."

"Oh?" Sydney's brows raised. "Folders containing what?"

"More projects like that one," Broots gestured at the folder. "Ideas and plans that would make a sane man's hair stand on end. I tell you, Sydney," he leaned in a little confidentially, "I'm praying that Miss Parker succeeds with what she's trying. It would feel VERY good to know that she's going to be putting an end to that kind of stuff."

The old psychiatrist slowly shook his head. "I agree it would be nice to think that all of the evil could just disappear overnight. But you know as well as I do that the Centre wouldn't have lasted all these years doing the kind of experimentation it has without others in the background, financing and enabling that kind of work."

"I'm sure Miss Parker knows what she's doing," Broots insisted loyally.

"I sincerely hope so," Sydney breathed earnestly. "I really don't want to have to face the consequences if she doesn't – and if she doesn't come out on the top of this dog-fight with Lyle."

oOoOo

Friday Afternoon

Jarod extended his hand to Hector Romero. "Thank you so much for coming down and giving us your statement, Mr. Romero."

"El gusto es mio," the swarthy Puerto Rican who ran the Luz Shelter appreciated the firm and warm grasp from the police officer. "Will you be calling – to let us know that you've caught the cabron that did this?"

"I'll see to it that you're notified of developments in the case," Jarod promised, just as he'd promised the other shelter managers who had come forward. He saw Captain DiAngelo's curt beckoning gesture and signaled to one of the detectives nearby. "Detective Wong will see that you get back to the shelter," he directed and then headed off toward DiAngelo.

"Yeah, Cap?"

"Federales are here," the Captain informed him. "They want to talk to you."

Jarod nodded, yet sighed inwardly. This was the point at which either the hole in the entire investigation – the one that connected a simple pencil sketch with a drivers' license photo from Delaware – would either be exposed or glossed over. He plastered on a very business-like expression and followed his diminutive captain into the glassed-in office.

"Detective Jarod Holmes, meet Special Agent Watson from the FBI."

"Holmes?" The FBI agent's smile twinkled with restrained mischief as he extended his hand.

Jarod's lips quirked in a very brief smirking smile. "You aren't a doctor, by any chance?" he quipped irreverently.

"Detective Holmes here is the one who put the pieces together," Captain DiAngelo continued, missing out on the joke entirely. "And now…" he dropped his hand to a file folder on the desk, "we have corroborating witnesses…"

Watson's brows soared until they were nearly hidden behind the longish blonde hair. "Do you have any idea how long the FBI has been wanting a wedge to pry open the Centre, Detective?"

That surprised the former Pretender. "Really?"

The FBI agent nodded sagely. "There have been rumors and only barely believable rumors about some of the stuff they've supposedly been involved in. In fact, there are a couple of my colleagues who have folders about yea-thick with information about the number of people who have come in contact with that group and then simply vanished."

Jarod allowed himself to look genuinely astonished. "You mean you've been investigating the Centre already?"

"Not necessarily officially, mind you," Watson spoke softly. "Seems the Centre has friends in the upper echelons of the FBI that would like nothing better than for the Centre to fall off our radars entirely. But something of this magnitude – and with this kind of evidence – is something that even THEY won't be able to ignore for long, or sweep conveniently under the rug." He held his hand out. "Now, just what all do you have?"

DiAngelo didn't hesitate, but deposited the file folder with everything they'd managed to collect so far – the sketch, the drivers' license photo, the statements, and the vehicle registration record – into Watson's hand. The FBI agent settled down in the Captain's chair and opened the folder to begin reading, and DiAngelo exchanged an amused and mildly irritated glance with Jarod. "You gonna need me anymore?" Jarod asked.

"Stick around," Watson answered before the police captain could get his mouth open. "I may have questions for you when I'm done here."

Jarod nodded and headed back to his desk. All he could do now was wait to see if what he'd put together would hold together well enough that the question he dreaded didn't have to be asked.

oOoOo

"You know what you're supposed to do?" Willy asked Hank for the third time.

"Yes," came the response in a completely uninflected voice. "I wait until dark, until she comes home – and then I take aim through that window." He pointed upwards at a window which, at the moment, was dark. "When it's done, I call in."

"That's right." Willy felt just a touch of disquiet as he handed over the light case that contained the high-powered rifle and the telescopic sight. This kind of job wasn't one he liked seeing handed over to nonprofessionals – even those with the kind of dead aim that this man had evidenced over the last day or so on the firing range.

Still, this man had followed his orders to the letter during the two days of training. The ability of the man to recognize and put a bullet between the eyes of the target from among a crowd of others in simulated scenarios had satisfied even him that the chemical enhancement to the brainwashing had cemented everything in the man's mind. Willy was now convinced that his latest project believed Miss Parker was a target to be eliminated at all costs – and would most likely pursue her until he'd carried out his order without hesitation or qualm. There was only a little bit more to check one more time…

"What don't you do?"

"I don't let anybody see me," Hank answered as if reciting by rote. "I don't talk to anybody until the job is done. I stay out of sight."

"And what will happen if you fail at any one of these tasks?" the sweeper pressed brutally.

"I'll be dead." Hank reported the consequence with no inflection whatsoever.

"And if she doesn't come home right away?"

"I wait until she does." The answer came without hesitation. "She WILL come eventually."

Willy nodded. There was nothing left to do now but to leave and see whether or not Mr. Cox's infamous project was actually going to bear sustainable fruit. Disposable cleaners! The very thought was both exciting and appalling. He'd been a cleaner himself often enough to know the risks involved in carrying out Centre directives that resulted in a life shortened permanently – and the idea that this man could be caught, tried and convicted without any shadow of involvement even approaching the Centre was intriguing. The idea that the disposable assassin would break his programming and fail at his task at an essential moment, however, was almost a negative counterbalance.

"I'll be in touch," he uttered finally and turned his back to walk through the underbrush on the hill next to Miss Parker's summerhouse to the lane on which he'd left the black Centre sedan entrusted to his care. The next few hours would be long ones.

oOoOo

"Yeah?"

"Jarod." The accented voice was unmistakable.

"Sydney – do you have something?"

The psychiatrist sighed. "Yes – and it isn't all that good. The project that Lyle was working on is known as Hydra's Teeth. It's a combination drug and brainwashing technique designed to destroy ethical boundaries within a person so that they can be trained for certain jobs…"

"What kind of jobs, Sydney?" Jarod's voice was tight.

"Most specifically, from what we've been able to uncover, that of assassin."

"What?!" came the explosion from the other end of the line.

Sydney sighed. "The assumption is that homeless people can be lost in crowds, Jarod. Trained to kill and turned loose like human homing pigeons to kill a specific target without casting the least shadow of suspicion or involvement on the agency or government involved. They become disposable assassins – good for one job and then either killed themselves or allowed to hang out to dry."

"My God!" Jarod sat back at his desk, the dull rumble of voices in the precinct bullpen all but dropping away. "And that's what Lyle was doing – bringing in homeless men to be turned into walking guided missiles?"

"Cox has the process to the human testing phase," Sydney reported with real regret. "I'd say that it's likely that your friend got picked up for another nameless homeless person."

"Actually, he came to the rescue of the man Lyle was trying to strong-arm," Jarod countered quietly, looking around as if realizing his surroundings and making sure nobody was paying much attention to his conversation. "He probably wasn't a target at all in the first place – just a victim of his own do-good-ing." He thought for a moment. "So where do you suppose he is?"

Sydney sighed again audibly. "Broots thinks that Cox might be using the old cell block where you were held when you were younger." There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Are you still there?"

"I'm still here," Jarod replied in a tortured voice. The vision he'd been trying to avoid for days no longer content to remain in the back of his mind. Hank was a lover of the outdoors – a hiker and backpacker. To think of him trapped in a tiny eight by ten cell with nothing but a bare lightbulb… "Thank you, Sydney."

"What are you going to do?"

"I should warn you, there's evidence connecting Lyle to the kidnappings – and I just made sure that the FBI got brought in on the case because the crime crosses state lines," Jarod reported quietly. "You might want to warn Parker and Mr. Broots that there's a storm brewing that may not be long breaking over your heads. From the sounds of it, there are more than a few FBI agents who'd like nothing better than to dissect the Centre for all the suspicions it's aroused over the years and managed to have its "friends in high places" put the kaibosh on."

The grey eyebrows had risen dramatically. "I'll be sure to warn Miss Parker about what might be coming her way in the near future," Sydney promised and then hesitated. "You still haven't told me what YOU intend to do, Jarod."

"I'm not sure," Jarod answered honestly. "Maybe I won't have to do anything – the FBI can do the work for me." There was a quick pause on the Pretender's end of the call. "If the FBI gets hold, Sydney, they're going to dig into just about everything…"

"Don't worry, Jarod," the old psychiatrist soothed his former protégé. "I can take care of myself."

"Do me a favor, Sydney?"

"Name it." He owed the young man who had been locked away in the bowels of the Centre for the greater portion of his life so much, a favor was the least he could do.

"Tell Miss Parker to watch her back." Jarod's voice had gotten tight. "I don't need to be in full SIM mode to tell you that having a program that develops disposable assassins very near implementation doesn't bode well for our Miss Parker's plans to take control of the Centre."

Sydney sighed. "I've been thinking the same thing," he admitted ruefully. "I'll pass the message along."

"Good." There was another pause. "You watch your back too. Lyle's not above just taking you all out because he can, you know…"

"Like I said, Jarod, I can take care of myself." But Sydney already knew that the line had gone dead. He sighed deeply and replaced the receiver. Jarod didn't need to know that Sydney had long since had a computer worm program inserted into his terminal that would activate at a very specialized set of keystrokes and remove all mention of his name from the entire Centre intranet and mainframe within just an hour or two. Broots had done the same thing for himself and Miss Parker too – just in case. It was their collective ace in the hole – and nobody suspected.

And evidently the point in time was approaching when that was the card that would have to be played.

oOoOo

The dwindling rays of daylight made for an interesting light play on the side of the summerhouse – something that Hank had found fascinating until he'd heard the sound of a car approaching rapidly. From his post he watched as Miss Parker climbed from her car and walked over to the mailbox and pulled a thick wad of envelopes from within.

Hank looked around. There was still the occasional car driving down the lane as people who lived in the outlying areas headed home from work – dropping Miss Parker in her drive would be too obvious, calling too much attention to the deed. His orders had been most explicit. He was to wait until after dark and for Miss Parker to have gone upstairs to her bedroom. Her shadow against the blinds upstairs would be all the target he'd need.

He hoisted the heavy, high-powered rifle and sighted the bedroom window that had been pointed out to him. Then he sighed, let the gun back down and resumed watching the play of light through the leaves of the trees make patterns of the shadows on the side of the house. It was early. He didn't need to be that observant.

Not yet.

oOoOo

Sydney closed the file folder with a shudder. Broots had been right – there might not be many pages in the packet he'd received, but what was there made the scope of the project abundantly clear. It was diabolical, logical – and looked to be just the kind of financial plum that could help pull the Centre out of whatever economic hole Jarod's escape and continuing to elude recapture had dug it into. The crass and callous disregard for human life and dignity required for the most vulnerable of society to be gathered like so many lambs herded to the slaughter was unbelievable – and the thought that others, less vulnerable but caught up by mistake, could be equally mistreated and then discarded when their usefulness was over turned his stomach.

"Syd!" Broots' voice preceded him as he burst through the sliding doors of the Sim Lab and headed toward the office at the far end at a dead run.

"What's the matter?" the psychiatrist asked in a calm voice, hoping his demeanor would take the edge from the computer tech's near panic.

"I was just about ready to log out of the mainframe, you know – Debbie wants me home early tonight because she has this new recipe she wants to try…"

"Broots!" There were those times when Sydney sympathized with Miss Parker's lack of patience with her loyal tech's ability to dance around a piece of news without saying anything for far longer than was necessary or wise most of the time.

"Right." The exclamation did it's job, and Broots seemed to snap out of his rambling reverie. "Anyway, I was still in search mode for anything on the Hydra's Teeth project – and this document hit the folder. I mean, I'd set up an alarm for when anything new got added to that particular category…"

"What did this document say?" Sydney had to bite his tongue not to sound more frustrated still at his friend's talent for finding ways to digress.

"It was a formal complaint to the future Chairman of the Centre from Mr. Cox!" Broots related with excitement and alarm. "Seems Mr. Lyle has taken it upon himself to move one of Mr. Cox's new test subjects into final test phase – and given the subject a target."

It was the look in Broots' eyes that told Sydney the rest of the story – and he reached for his telephone and began dialing madly.

oOoOo

Friday night

Miss Parker pulled the cell phone from her pocket and looked at the identification of the incoming caller – and then turned the little device off. Whatever it was that Sydney had to tell her could wait – at the very least until after she'd had a shower and relaxed. She put her supper dishes in the dishwasher, attached her phone to its recharging cord and turned the light off in the kitchen.

It had been a long, frustrating and nerve-wracking day. Angelo had burst into her office just before she'd left for the day, grabbing at her arm almost painfully and trying to tell her something – but the empath had been simply too incoherent to be intelligible. With real reluctance, she'd finally called in the evening sweepers to take the little man away back to his official "space" – knowing full well that Angelo would stay in that dingy and featureless cell for very little time before he'd be slipping through the ventilation system again.

Sydney's relating Jarod's warning to her had taken her by surprise. The psychiatrist hadn't been very forthcoming in explaining how HE had managed to retain contact with the elusive Pretender all this time – not to mention managed to keep that contact a secret. She had to admire the man, even while being frustrated at him for continuing to be more interested in protecting his former protégé than in assisting in hauling Jarod's ass back to the Centre where it belonged.

She scowled as the land-line phone began to jangle. Sydney must be pretty desperate to be insisting on calling her that way, she thought as she mounted the stairs slowly. The answering machine was just as good as the voicemail on her cell phone however – and maybe the Belgian would get the hint that she didn't want to be disturbed right now.

Just inside her bedroom, she pulled open a drawer and drew out a fresh pair of satiny pajamas. It had been the kind of day that required satin to soothe the outside, which would soothe the inside later – with maybe a nice shot of whiskey as enticement.

oOoOo

"Merde!" Sydney swore and slammed the phone back down in the cradle.

"Can't you reach her?" Broots asked with a touch of something disturbingly like fear in his voice.

"Go on home to Debbie," Sydney directed his friend bluntly as he slid the folder into his briefcase and rose quickly. "I'll go over to Miss Parker's and make sure she knows…"

Broots was nodding and moving already.

Sydney pulled his beret onto his head with foreboding and headed for the elevator as fast as his long legs would carry him.

oOoOo

Hank pulled in a deep sigh as the light flared in the bedroom, and he lifted the heavy rifle to his shoulder and sighted the crosshairs on the window blind. It had taken longer than he'd anticipated for the lights upstairs to flick on – and he was beginning to get tired.

There she was! The silhouette was unmistakable – although with apparently shorter hair than the target he'd spent the last couple of days staring at. Her actions were unmistakable as well – she was running her fingers through her hair and reaching down to something near the window probably setting her alarm clock before climbing into bed.

The finger on the trigger only had to move a fraction of an inch – and the recoil of the weapon stung his shoulder. The only sound made was like the soft pop of plastic bubble wrap between a thumb and forefinger.

The window shade shuddered, distorting the silhouette slightly – which didn't matter much as the figure behind it crumpled immediately away out of sight.


	7. Running on Empty

Chapter 7 – Running On Empty

Friday night

Miss Parker lay on the floor of her bedroom gasping in agony from the bullet that had torn through her left shoulder. She brought her right hand over and gingerly touched the fabric of the satiny pajama top and cringed mentally from the amount of blood that she'd already lost in the first few moments. She knew she needed help desperately – and immediately – before the blood loss could become more than her body could cope with.

Struggling madly against a real danger of simply passing out from either pain or shock, she looked up at her nightstand. On it was her alarm clock and an extension of her home telephone. But to get to it, she'd either have to get up at least partway or pull it down to her – and either option meant forcing herself into motion that would cause excruciating pain. But it was either that or lie back and die from blood loss – and there was no way she would just roll over and quit. Whoever did this needed to be made to pay Big Time – and she wanted to be around when payback time came, by God!

With a grinding roar of agony, she forced herself to roll over toward her uninjured shoulder and push herself into a sitting position. As much as she wanted to clamp a hand to her wounded shoulder, she reached out instead for the cord that led to the cradle of her telephone and gave a mighty tug. Compliantly, the device flew from the nightstand and thudded on the floor – the receiver off the hook and howling the dial tone softly.

It took another determined effort and clenched-teethed shriek to pull the telephone to her and lay claim to the receiver by dragging on the coiled cord until she could reach it. She hesitated a moment, trying to clear her mind of the pain long enough to remember the phone number of someone who could respond the most immediately to her need, and then slowly and carefully punched the buttons for the number into the phone without losing her grip on the receiver. That done and what little energy she had spent, she lay back down on the floor with the receiver to her ear.

"Pick up, Syd," she breathed prayerfully as the call took longer than she wanted to connect.

"This is Sydney," came the wonderful sound of his accented voice through the tiny speaker. She moved her lips, but was dismayed when now no sound came out. "Parker?" Sydney's voice demanded in a worried tone. "I tried to call you earlier…"

"H….help…." Miss Parker finally managed to groan. "Sh…shot…"

"I'm on my way," Sydney told her in a very brusque tone and a thicker accent – both easy signs of his agitated state of mind. "I'll call Sam and have him meet me there. Where are you?"

"Up…up…" It was an effort too far – between pain and shock and blood loss, she'd simply reached the end of her strength. The receiver slipped from her fingers as she slipped into the beckoning darkness against which she no longer had the means to fight.

oOoOo

"What do you mean, this is going to take a while?" Jarod gaped.

Special Agent Watson scratched his head and had the temerity to look chagrined. "I told you that there were people that would just as soon the Centre dropped completely from the agency radar, remember?" Jarod nodded impatiently. "Well, some of those folks hold high-level positions – and are doing their level best to sidetrack this investigation before it gets a chance to start."

Jarod moved his hand holding the cell phone from his ear to wipe at his eyes in frustration, never letting his attention wander too far from the road in front of him. This news wasn't unexpected, but that didn't make it any less unwelcome. He put the phone back to his ear and caught the tail end of "….still there, Detective?"

"I'm still here," he replied tiredly. "So what now?"

"We wait until we have search warrants signed and in hand before making a move," Agent Watson sighed. "Trust me when I say that you presented more than ample circumstantial evidence to link the Centre with this series of kidnappings – but my hands are tied until I get permission…"

"I understand," Jarod answered in disgust. "You'll let me know when things really start to move?"

"Absolutely," Watson promised. "You'll be the first one I call. You're at home, I take it?"

Jarod looked about him a bit. The Maryland scenery was flying past at a very fast pace – his trip undertaken on the hope that he'd arrive in Blue Cove just in time to watch the FBI storm the Centre gates. In his pocket was a new set of identification with the Jarod Ness right under the words "Special Agent" and next to yet another cropped and pasted photo of himself. Now it seemed he wouldn't be using it.

"Not exactly – but you can reach me at this number," Jarod promised.

"You aren't thinking about making a move on your own, without authorization, are you?" Watson demanded suddenly, making Jarod wonder if the man was empathic or psychic.

"Of course not," Jarod lied easily. "I just had an errand to run. I'll be home later on."

Watson didn't sound entirely convinced, but accepted Jarod's assurance nonetheless. "I'll be in touch then," he promised and disconnected the call.

Jarod tucked the cell phone back into his shirt breast pocket and put his other hand back on the wheel. There was no way he was going to turn around and go back to the city when he'd already come all this way. No – now he would take matters into his own hand and slip quietly into the Centre via the route he'd used when he escaped so long ago. Somewhere in that dark mess was his best friend – and there was no way he was going to sit around on his thumbs waiting for an infiltrated and partially compromised federal agency to work its way around the obstacles the moles would be feverishly erecting.

On second thought he pulled the phone from his pocket again and pressed a speed dial number. If Sydney were by any chance working late in his office, he might be able to assist in finding the exact cell where the homeless men were being held. Amazingly, it took three rings for his old mentor to answer the telephone.

"This is Sydney."

"I'm on my way to Blue Cove and the Centre, Sydney," he told the holder man with no preamble. "I'm going to get my friend out of there… and I was wondering if you…"

"I wish you luck, Jarod – but right now I'm a little busy," Sydney interrupted brusquely. "Miss Parker has been shot – and Sam and I are going to meet at her place…"

"Miss Parker's shot!" Jarod repeated in shock. "When?"

"I really don't have time to chat, Jarod," Sydney bit off. "I'll call you when I know something." And with that, the psychiatrist terminated the call as abruptly as Jarod ever had.

Jarod swore softly and tucked the phone away – and then pressed down on the accelerator just a little bit harder. There was even more reason for him to make tracks across Maryland and Delaware now than there had been a few minutes earlier, and somewhere between where he was and the state line, he'd have to make a decision he never considered even possible to make. He'd have to decide if he'd be heading to rescue Hank first – or inserting himself into Miss Parker's world again to make sure as little harm came to her as possible.

oOoOo

Hank moved slowly and carefully around the back of the house – into long and dark shadows that would hide him from the rest of the world – and hope that his target hadn't quite locked up the house yet. The words of his mentor – the tall, dark man – still echoed in his ears. He had to check – he couldn't just rely on presumption – he had to make sure his target had been terminated before he could go back and rest.

As he walked up the front steps, he pulled on latex gloves. The alarm system was easily disarmed – the code his mentor had given him, entered just as he'd been told, switched the red light off and the little green light next to it on. Now he was free to make his way into the house by whatever means was the simplest and quickest. Time was a key, he'd been told. He had to get in, make sure the job was completed, and then get out again. He could otherwise leave no sign of his entry – he wasn't to touch or move anything, and definitely was forbidden from taking anything.

As if he were a thief otherwise, he thought with some scorn.

Each window he tried and found securely shut – and the back door was not only probably locked but even the screen door was locked shut so that he couldn't check. Hank slunk over to what he figured would be the kitchen window. He lifted the heavy butt of the rifle and smashed it through the glass and then, reached and extending the rifle as a tool, cleared away the ragged points of broken glass that remained in the window until he had a clear and unobstructed access to the house.

As he hoisted himself over the sill and tucked his feet in so he could clamber over the sink to the floor he could hear the sound of a motorcycle roaring past on the road beyond the front yard – and he quickly dismissed the sound from his mind. He'd been told the stairs were at the front of the house – he'd have to find them. His target was above him – and he had to make sure she was dead.

It was dark inside, and it took time for his eyes to adjust to the even lowered level of light in the darkened house. Outside he could hear the sounds of vehicles getting closer – but he disregarded them entirely. His eyes had finally become accustomed to the dim light inside – and finally he began to move.

oOoOo

Sydney was just climbing from his comfortable town car and reaching for his doctor's bag as Sam roared up on his motorcycle – wild-eyed and dangerous-looking in his black leather jacket and pants. Sam had his gun out and was already combing the shadows around the front door for hidden killers as Sydney mounted the steps to the house. "Merde! The alarm's off!" Sydney hissed at the sweeper as Sam cautiously backed up the steps.

"Damn! That means he could be inside!" Sam hissed back. "Stand back!"

Sydney stood aside as Sam aimed a powerful kick at Miss Parker's front door that splintered the doorjamb behind it as it flew back. Sam stepped in and flipped on the light. "Where is she?" he demanded, looking around the living room and seeing nothing amiss.

"Upstairs!" Sydney called and pointed. "That's what she was trying to tell me!"

Again Sam took the lead, his big Smith and Wesson leading the way for him as he moved from the light below into the darkness of the hallway. Soft sound of a window being pushed open and then scrabbling against the side of the house caught at Sydney's ear. Sam burst through the doorway to the right and turning on the light just in time to see two sets of fingers let go of the windowsill as an intruder dropped to the ground outside.

"The bastard's getting away!" Sam yelled and pushed roughly past the old psychiatrist in a headlong rush to get back down the stairs and out the front door again. "Get Miss Parker!" he yelled over his shoulder as he caught sight of a man running through the underbrush close to the road.

Sydney hadn't been in the Parker summerhouse for a good many years, but he still remembered which bedroom was the master bedroom – and moved swiftly for the door. At first glance after turning on the light, he could see nothing amiss. The master bathroom door was open and the bathroom itself was dark. Then his eyes spotted where the runner that covered a portion of one of the nightstands was askew – and he moved around the end of the bed.

"Miss Parker!" he breathed and knelt by the fallen woman. A quick touch to the side of her neck told him that she was still alive, despite the size of the pool of blood that had spread from beneath her. The telephone receiver was buzzing from the disconnected call not far from her fingers, with the cradle a short distance away. The hole in the window shade told the tale.

With gentle fingers, he unbuttoned the top of Miss Parker's pajama top to survey the damage – and then immediately reached for his doctor's bag and the bandaging it held to try to staunch the still steady bleeding. He carefully pulled the pajama top away from the entire shoulder and rolled her slightly to see if the bullet had gone completely through; and then reached for even more bandages to press against the ragged exit wound that was bleeding even more steadily than the first.

The moment he heard the thump of heavy footsteps, he shouted out, "Sam! Up here!"

The heavy footsteps grew nearer until: "Oh shit!" Sam's eyes were wide with horror – his experience with gunshot wounds telling him more about the seriousness of her injuries than Sydney ever could, or would.

"Come here," Sydney demanded in a tone that would broach no argument. "Hold these tightly while I tape them in place."

Sam slipped to his knees beside his fallen boss and tried not to panic at the sight of her extreme pallor. "Are we too late, Doc?"

"We need to get her to a hospital," Sydney shook his head and carefully eased one of Sam's hands away as he plied the medical tape to the bandage. "She's lost a lot of blood…"

And his cell phone chose that moment to begin chirping again.

"Ignore it," Sam growled as Sydney reached for the device.

Sydney took one glance at the identity of the caller before punching the button and putting the phone to his ear. "Talk fast, Jarod," he bit off sharply.

"How is she?"

"She took a bullet to the left shoulder and has lost a lot of blood," Sydney tucked the tiny device between shoulder and ear with a practiced move and began to tear new strips of medical tape to work on the second wound. "We'll need to get her to a hospital…"

"Absolutely not!" Jarod exclaimed tersely. "If this is Lyle's handiwork, he'll know to be watching the local hospitals and emergency rooms. We want her to recover – not end up the victim of yet another attempt."

"Jarod, I don't know enough about surgery…" Sydney began.

"But I DO," Jarod interrupted quickly. "Listen to me, though – you'll need to get her out of there NOW!"

"You're nowhere near…"

"I'm on the northern outskirts of Dover, Sydney," Jarod interrupted again. "LISTEN to me. There's a lair I used to stay at just a mile or two north of town. You and Miss Parker will be safe there until I get there – the Centre knows nothing of this place…"

"Sydney! We've got to go!" Sam yelled at Sydney angrily. "Tell the Lab Rat to shove it up a dark place…"

"I'm not going hunting for some place I've never been before while Miss Parker is bleeding to death on my watch," Sydney snapped at Jarod, feeling pushed on both sides.

"Fine. Then take her to your place. I'll meet you there, assess her condition – and we can move her as soon as she's stable."

"Are you sure…"

"Just do it, Sydney. I'll be there as soon as I can." Jarod disconnected the call before his mentor could offer any more argument. He'd have to watch his speed until he got past Dover and could head for some of the smaller back-roads – roads that he knew as well as he knew like the back of his hand. On them, he could fly low.

oOoOo

Hank slipped back through the underbrush and scowled. His mentor hadn't mentioned anything about being interrupted – or that the target would end up on the receiving end of a rescue party. From his vantage point only a little closer to the house than where he'd been set up originally, he watched the two men who had burst into the house carry the apparently lifeless form of a woman – his target! – between them and place her very gently in the back seat of the big, black car. The older man trotted around the back of the car, threw his black bag – was the guy a doctor? – into the back seat and climbed into the car next to his patient. The big, dangerous man who had give chase to him and come far closer to catching him than Hank wanted to think about climbed behind the wheel of the car and sent it down the drive. Tires spun in the loose gravel and then squealed their protest as they hit the pavement of the lane.

Despite being a fairly good runner capable of outrunning most of the other cross-country runners when he'd been in school, Hank knew there was little chance of his catching up with a car driven as if Hell itself were behind it. There was no alternative.

He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and hit the first programmed number. "We have a problem," he reported in a clear and unemotional tone – and then listened carefully.

oOoOo

Sydney hovered worriedly as Sam reached into the back seat and gently pulled Miss Parker up into his arms. "This way," he said, leading the way from the garage to the kitchen of his home and holding the door wide open so Sam could maneuver his precious load through the narrow opening. From there he led the way through the house, turning on lights as he went, through to the front, up the stairs and taking the first doorway to the left. "Put her there," he directed, pulling a thin plastic sheet from the top of the guest bed and then moving aside for Sam.

If anything, Miss Parker was even more pale than before – and Sydney could feel his stomach twist in knots at the thought that Jarod wouldn't be able to get to them in time to save her. She looked so helpless, her skin almost transparent with her dark hair like a cloud around her face.

"What do we do now?" Sam asked, his own eyes never leaving his boss' face. "Do we boil water or something?"

Sydney blinked and snapped out of his shocked reverie. "Go down to my living room. There's a liquor cabinet there – bring back a bottle of whatever you find first."

"Doc! This isn't the time to…" Sam began to object.

"Not for me," Sydney shook his head. "For sterilization – we aren't going to have time for niceties."

Sam spun on his heels and headed out of the guest room like a shot. He'd been in this house before – although not willingly – when Lyle had found great satisfaction in ordering him to plant listening devices in the old man's home. Very quickly he checked the places he remembered leaving the little bugs, and was not entirely comforted to find the bugs gone. He sighed silently and headed for the liquor cabinet, praying very hard that neither Raines nor Lyle had seen fit to have the bugs he'd planted replaced in other, unknown, locales.

Sydney followed Sam only as far as the upstairs corridor – heading instead for the linen closet doors that lined the hallway on one side and dragging out several large, terry towels and a new bed sheet. He stopped in the upstairs bathroom just long enough to grab up a pair of scissors for cutting a sheet into more bandaging, and then headed back to his guest room.

"Here." Sam's voice came at Sydney from the side as he was focused on the bedroom door – and suddenly there was a bottle of Chivas Regal plunked down on top of the linens.

"We'll need my doctor's bag – in case Jarod doesn't have supplies of his own," Sydney suddenly remembered. "It's still in the back seat of my car…"

"I'll get it," the sweeper said tersely and headed once more for the stairs.

Sydney moved back into the bedroom and put the linens on the chest of drawers for easy

use, then settled down in the chair next to the bed to begin cutting and then tearing the fine linen sheet into strips. Jarod, he sent out mentally into the darkness beyond the window behind him, hurry! Please!

oOoOo

"What?" Lyle barked into the cell phone, his tone remarkably like his twin sister's at the idea of being interrupted at this hour of night for business. "This had better be a report that the major obstruction to my assuming the Chairmanship is no longer a problem…"

Willy flinched. How did he get from working exclusively for Mr. Raines to being Mr. Lyle's pet go-fer? He truly despised the man and knew beyond a doubt that the nature of the jobs he'd be getting as Mr. Lyle's personal sweeper would be testing even HIS limits of endurance. Still, it was either work for Mr. Lyle or throw in his lot with Miss Parker – who probably wouldn't want a thing to do with him. "Mr. Lyle, sir, there's been a slight problem…"

From the long silence on the other end of the line, Willy knew that Lyle's infamous temper had most likely just hit over-drive. "What KIND of problem?" Lyle asked in a lethally gentle and soft voice.

"Seems your test subject was in the process of making sure that the hit had gone down and been properly terminated when he was interrupted by…"

"Don't tell me she got away!" Lyle shouted.

"The subject reports that two men entered the house by force – kicking down the front door, as a matter of fact – and they carried someone out and drove off. The subject barely escaped without being caught…"

"He was supposed to stay, finish the job and then simply deal with the consequences," Lyle complained to no one in particular. "I thought you'd made that clear.."

"I told him exactly what you told me to say," Willy protested his innocence. "But once he got in the field…"

"DAMN!" Lyle exploded – and there was a long moment of silence.

"Sir?" Willy finally attempted. "What do you want us to do now?"

"Find her and get rid of her," Lyle explained as if to a small child, "and now we'll have to take out her support staff as well."

Willy's face dropped in surprise. "ALL of them, sir?" he breathed.

"They're probably the ones that came charging to her rescue, you idiot!" Lyle hissed, almost beside himself with frustration. "Sydney and Broots and Sam. They've been running interference for her for far too long – it's time it ended."

"Sir?"

"She's got to be in one of their houses," Lyle was beginning to get disgusted with Willy's lack of creative thinking. "Start with the Broots' place – search it, kill anybody you find there. Is that understood? Then go on to Sydney's and do the same thing. I want this problem far behind me by morning."

"The little Broots girl too?" Willy was gonna be damned sure that the kind of sanctions being ordered here were perfectly clear between himself and Lyle. The girl was an innocent – if she was to be eliminated too, he wanted confirmation.

"The girl too," Lyle sighed in frustration. "She's part of the problem – and would MAKE trouble for me, no doubt, if left to grow up without her Daddy, don't you think?"

"But… Wouldn't it be more logical…"

"You aren't being paid to think – you're being paid to follow orders," Lyle growled, what little patience he had growing thinner by the second. "They know that WE know that the most logical person she'd have called for help – if she had a chance – would be Sydney. And because they know that we know, they'd think to outsmart us by taking her someplace else – and the only other place they'd dare take her would be Broots." Lyle smiled coldly, proud of his deductive reasoning. "So we're gonna outfox them and go to the least likely place first." His voice grew hard. "Understand?"

"What about the test subject, sir?" Willy asked, his eye resting cautiously on the face of the nameless assassin. The man had stood motionless and expressionless next to the driver's door of the Centre sedan ever since Willy had driven up to their pre-arranged rendezvous point – and the seeming lack of emotion or any response at all was beginning to become creepy.

"Take him with you, you idiot!" Lyle snapped. "We need HIS fingerprints on the murder weapon and no other's. The two of you work together – you back him up while he finishes his job right."

"And then?"

"And then you go home and get a good night's sleep," Lyle mocked him, "knowing that this was a job well-done."

"What about the test subject afterwards…"

"Take him back to the middle of Dover and dump him. He doesn't know where he was taken – and the chemical conditioning is such that he should be ready to forget faces. He's the perfect patsy." Lyle smiled coldly. "And if this works right, we'll have proven the efficacy of Hydra's Teeth beyond and shadow of a doubt – and the Centre will be set for the next generation of research projects."

Willy nodded and disconnected his call and sighed, leaning his head tiredly against the steering wheel for a bit before waving a hand at the nameless assassin. "Get in," he ordered, and then repeated the conditioned phrase that was supposed to assure compliance. "There are a few more things you need to do to make up for your earlier failure. You will NOT fail this time, do you understand?"

"I won't fail again," Hank repeated and then placidly walked around the hood of the car.

oOoOo

Jarod eyed the gaping garage door and then walked quietly through past Sydney's Lincoln town car and up to the kitchen door. There was a light barely visible beneath the door, and he opened the door quietly and stepped into the lit but otherwise abandoned kitchen. A quick glance told the story, and he began following the trail of light from the kitchen to the front of the house – only to stop dead in his tracks as the cold steel of a gun suddenly was pressed into the side of his neck.

"Don't even breathe," Sam's whisper sounded menacingly from behind his left ear.

"While we stand here, Miss Parker is bleeding to death," Jarod responded in a soft but determined voice that belied the way his heart had nearly stopped a moment earlier. "I'm on your side this time."

There was a firm hand that landed on Jarod's shoulder even as the muzzle of the gun was withdrawn. "That remains to be seen, Lab Rat," Sam hissed and gave the Pretender a push. "Up the stairs and into the guest room."

"We're going to have to stabilize her and then move her quickly," Jarod stated anxiously as he let the sweeper's pressure on his shoulder steer him through a house he'd never had the courage to enter before. "If Lyle knows that he missed with his assassin, he's going to be looking for her with a vengeance." Sam's heavy sigh behind him told Jarod that the sweeper had already come to the same conclusion. "Were you seen?" Jarod demanded and would have stopped but for the hand at his shoulder keeping him moving forward.

"There was someone in the house when we got there," Sam admitted reluctantly. "He got away."

"Damn!"

Jarod turned the corner, and his eyes immediately caught sight of his mentor sitting in a chair on the far side of the bed, his arms high as he continued tearing yet another long strip from the partially destroyed sheet. Just a quick shift of the eyes found Miss Parker wan and motionless on the bed, the bandage on her shoulder already beginning to show signs of the continued blood seepage below.

Sam pushed Jarod just a bit further into the room and then moved to the other side of Miss Parker's bed, where he dropped the doctor's bag on the floor at his feet and took up a wary stance with his arms folded across his broad chest. "Just do what you need to," the sweeper ordered in a tight voice. "Like you said, we need to get out of here…"

Jarod moved to the side of the bed and sat down to carefully remove the bandage to see what he would be dealing with. "The bullet went through," Sydney told him before he had a chance to roll her. "I'm just worried that it might have hit a major artery."

The Pretender barely heard his old mentor. "Do you have your doctor's bag with you, Sydney?" he asked, raising his eyes to gaze questioningly at him.

"Here." Sam bent to retrieve the bag and thrust it forward. "The Doc had sent me for it when I heard you start to skulk through the house."

Jarod rose and hauled the bag over to the light on the nightstand so that he could see into its depths. He glanced up in surprise and pulled a small package of surgical needles and a sealed package of sutures from one of the side compartments. "You're pretty well prepared, Sydney," he commented and then set the items aside. "What do we have for…"

Sydney's hand was already pointing at the bottle of Chivas that sat on the chest of drawers next to a pile of toweling.

"Make two and then wash your hands in the Chivas," Jarod said as he poured some of the whiskey onto his own hands. "I'll need your hands to do the retraction so I can repair anything internal." He then turned to Sam. "Here," Jarod directed in a no-nonsense voice, beckoning. "Take the shade off that lamp and hold it right there." Sam moved to follow instructions, and then sullenly tolerated Jarod adjusting his positioning of the lamp slightly. "Sydney, have you got bandages made?"

"They just need rolling," Sydney replied as he took the scissors to the final bit of hem. This little strip didn't end up crumpled into a wad next to him, but began to be carefully wound around a hand into a neat square.

Sam sighed. Holding the lamp motionless was going to be difficult even though the lamp wasn't THAT heavy – but there was no way he was going to let his boss down. Despite the real temptation to call the Centre and have a retrieval team dispatched, Sam knew Jarod was Miss Parker's only hope of survival. To save her, he'd need good light.

Jarod's eyes impacted the vivid blue of the sweeper's. "Are you going to be able to hold that nice and steady for a fairly long period of time?"

"Just get to work," Sam growled, "and let me worry about whether my arms will hold up."

oOoOo

The cell phone in Sydney's shirt pocket began to chirp insistently.

"Ignore it," Sam snapped when both of the men toiling over Miss Parker looked up sharply. "We don't have time for chitty-chat."

"If it's Broots with information," Sydney reasoned with him, "we might need it."

"You get it," Jarod suggested and bent back over Miss Parker's shoulder. "Sydney, a little more right there – thanks."

Sam grumbled in anxious frustration and carefully plucked the chirping device from Sydney's pocket without moving that lamp very much – and then touched the connect button after checking the caller's ID. "What do you want?" he demanded harshly.

"Wh…who is this? Sydney?" came Broots' surprised and cautious voice.

"This is Sam," Sam growled. "Sydney has his hands full at the moment and can't answer his phone." Sydney, both hands involved in keeping the edges of the wound in Miss Parker's shoulder pulled open far enough so that Jarod could wield the little surgical needle and suture, was far too busy to talk to anyone.

"I don't know…" Broots knew his information was explosive, but was unsure just how trustworthy Sam could be.

"Look – I don't have time to play games," Sam snapped, "and neither does Sydney right now…"

"Lyle just posted a memo destined for the Triumvirate offices from his home terminal," Broots blurted, deciding that the only way to get the message through was to trust Miss Parker's personal sweeper. "He says that the final testing phase of Hydra's Teeth is in the works – and should conclude successfully tonight. Whatever THAT means…"

"Broots says that Lyle posted a note to the Africans – something about some sort of teeth being in a final testing phase and expected to end successfully tonite," Sam reported to Sydney.

"Miss Parker is the final test," Sydney responded with eyes closed in sickened realization, "and Lyle expects to hear any moment that she's been terminated."

"You can let go now, Sydney," Jarod interrupted his mentor's musing and the nodded with his nose. "I need another needle and sutures to sew this side closed." He glanced up at Sam. "Nine chances out of ten, if Lyle thinks Miss Parker is out of the way permanently, none of YOU three is safe anymore."

Sam's mouth dropped open. "You don't mean…"

"Tell Broots to pack up Debbie, climb into his car and start driving," Jarod tugged at the ragged edges of the wound to pull them closed over the sutured artery. "We can call him when we know its safe for him to resurface. He needs to hit an ATM and clean out his cash, make a private deal for a different vehicle, and make tracks."

Sam's eyes bugged when Sydney glanced up at his protégé, looked at the ragged expression in Jarod's face, and then turned to the sweeper. "Jarod's right," the older man confirmed. "If the balance of power has shifted, none of us are safe."

The sweeper's eyes narrowed, and he began to relate what the others in the room had said to him. By the time he'd finished, he could tell that Broots was about two steps shy of panicking and almost dropping the telephone in his haste to collect his daughter, pack just the bare essentials and then get the hell out of Blue Cove.

"You're sure about that?" Sam said, dropping the phone on the nightstand without worrying if it would bounce to the floor.

"Put the lamp down and help me roll her over," Jarod demanded without giving him an answer. "The moment we're through here, we need to move!"

Sam hastened to do as instructed, wondering if his one gun would be all that stood between his boss, himself and another day of breathing.

oOoOo

"Damn!" Willy stared around him at the obviously empty Broots house.

Next to him, Hank stood with the rifle cocked, waiting for new instructions. "Did we finish?" he asked in bland curiosity.

"No, we're not finished," Willy answered him in a frustrated and mocking tone. "Evidently Lyle overestimated their intelligence – they MUST have gone to Sydney's."

"And we go there too?"

Willy looked into the nearly expressionless eyes and nodded. "And we better hope and pray that we find them there this time."

"Who is the target this time?" Hank wanted to know.

"The same woman you were supposed to take care of earlier – and anybody else who is with her now. Do you understand?"

Hank nodded, his mind easily accepting the new directive. Take out the target and all around her. That shouldn't be TOO hard.

All they had to do now was find her…

oOoOo

Jarod wasn't happy pulling Miss Parker's bloody pajama top back into place and fastening it again, but he was fairly certain that he didn't have the time to be discriminating. "Go downstairs," he ordered Sam, "and turn off all the lights in the house. We want this place to look deserted, in case someone we don't want to meet up with decides to pay us a visit before we're gone."

The sweeper gave a grunt of assent and vanished through the bedroom door. Jarod turned to Sydney, who was wiping his hands on a towel after washing them in the bathroom. "You know we're going to need help," he announced quietly. "This took too long."

"All right." Sydney's face was tight. "But who can you call?"

Jarod stalked from the bedroom and into the master bedroom of the house in search, and quickly found what he'd been looking for. He picked up the receiver of the telephone extension and dialed three numbers, and then he waited for the brusque and no-nonsense voice on the other end to answer, "Blue Cove Police Department – please state your name and the nature of your emergency."

"My name is Jarod Russell, and I'd like to report an assault on a friend of mine," he stated the moment he got the chance. "What's more, I think the man who shot her may be coming back to finish the job…"


	8. Desperate Measures

Chapter 8 – Desperate Measures

Late Friday night

Jarod and Sam's eyes met in the dim light of the bedroom as the sound of breaking glass from somewhere below reached their ears. Sam's eyes glinted dangerously as he reached into his shoulder holster and hauled out his Smith and Wesson – despite the sound of a siren slowly moving in their direction in the distance.

Jarod eyed the gun and then looked back up at the sweeper. "We'll use that only as a last resort," he instructed quietly. "The police will be here soon. Hopefully we only need to surprise and intimidate and restrain – not shoot."

"Police be damned," Sam growled. "This is going to end…"

"Jarod's right," Sydney whispered from where he was sitting on the bed next to Miss Parker. "Use the help that's been summoned, Sam – just neutralize any intruder. We don't need to have to spring you from a jail cell…"

Sam's face closed down into a grimace, but finally he nodded his reluctant cooperation. He waved the gun beckoningly. "C'mon then, Lab Rat – we have a skunk to catch."

"Lock the door behind us, Sydney," Jarod directed. "If nothing else, it will give you a few extra seconds to figure out a way to defend yourself and her."

Sydney rose and followed the men – then closed and locked the door once they'd slipped out into the hallway. He tiptoed back to the bed and sat down next to Miss Parker again, his hand unable to resist the temptation to smooth her hair back from her forehead over and over in a rhythmic caress. Jarod's skill with the surgical needle had been obvious – and the wounds had bled very little once they'd been stitched closed. The only danger now was the blood loss she'd suffered before the makeshift surgery – and infection.

His gun – the one part of his association with the Centre that he'd always loathed and avoided – was in the master bedroom. Here, in the guest room, there was little with which he could defend a helpless invalid, much less himself. He'd have to pray that Sam and Jarod were successful in keeping whoever it was that was already in his house with murderous intent from getting close.

On second thought, he rose and went to the nightstand, bent down and unplugged the lamp and then wrapped the cord around the base so as not to trail behind and trip him. It would make a good bludgeon – IF it came down to that. Sitting back down on the bed, he put the lamp in easy reach and resumed his watch over Miss Parker. Until the danger was past, he dared not allow her to make any noise – and preventing that would mean keeping a sharp eye out for any signs of her returning to consciousness.

oOoOo

Willy gestured with his drawn weapon for Hank to follow him into the old psychiatrist's home through the broken arcadia door. The house was quiet – easily as quiet as the Broots house had been just a little while earlier – and the sweeper found himself wondering if Miss Parker's team had been even more on the ball than Lyle had anticipated. He heard a crunch of a shoe sole on the broken glass behind him. "C'mon," he hissed in a low whisper, rattled by the way the siren seemed to be drawing closer and closer. "This is YOUR job, you know…"

The squeal of tires, however, broke through Hank's torpor – and he stopped dead in his tracks as if stunned. What was he doing here? He blinked a few times as if trying to dislodge the cobwebs from his mind.

Willy heard the steps behind him falter, and turned angrily to growl, "Listen to me, asshole! You decide who lives and dies." His voice put a determined and forceful emphasis on the phrase that the nameless assassin had been brainwashed to respond to and then follow instructions without question. He couldn't lose control of the test subject now!

Hank's face immediately lost all tension and confusion – but the eyes were wary as the sound of pounding at the front door and muffled, "This is the Blue Cove Police Department," sounded through the thick oak.

Willy would have moved to grab Hank by the collar and haul the reluctant assassin forward to take the lead in searching the house, but froze when the cold metal of a gun barrel was suddenly pressed into the side of his neck. "Open the door for them," he heard a sickeningly familiar voice order – and then his eyes widened as an even more familiar silhouette moved from the shadows near the base of the staircase to head toward the door.

Only Willy heard the sound of crunching glass that told him that his current assignment, the test subject, had headed back out of the house at the first sign of trouble – and then his attention was taken by the sight of five uniformed policemen, their guns drawn and obviously ready to fire, swarming through Sydney's front door. "Hands where we can see them!" the first officer demanded – and immediately Sam raised his gun into the air. Willy's weapon fell to the floor at his feet as he raised his hands a little more slowly.

"He's with me – trying to help me protect the lady he's been pursuing," Jarod insisted immediately, pointing at Sam. "I'm Jarod Russell – I'm the one who called you."

Sam heard it then – the sound of a soft footstep in the rear of the house. "There's another intruder, damn it!" he yelled and motioned with his arms, forgetting entirely that he still was holding his nine millimeter. "Out the back!" The sound of a rifle chambering a round as it pointed to his head had him with his hands up again and motionless in short order. "Oh, for God's sake…"

"See to it," the officer in charge, an older man by the name of Hoffmann, directed two of his officers and then turned to Jarod. "Where's the woman?"

"Upstairs," Jarod replied, reaching for and turning on the lights and then pointing at Sam again. "He's with me – helping me keep her safe."

"With a gun?" Hoffmann demanded with raised brows.

"I have a permit," Sam told him in a very steady voice. "Here, take my weapon – and then look in my wallet. It's in my right back pants pocket…"

"Traitor!" Willy hissed as Hoffmann nodded for one of his men to frisk Sam, relieving him of his weapon, and then to check out his story. "I have a permit too, for that matter…"

"But you don't have permission to break into people's houses with a gun drawn, obviously intending to do them harm," Jarod countered heatedly. "I'm sure the man who owns the home here will be more than happy to press charges."

"That's for sure!" The police officers whirled to see Sydney descending the stairs. "My name is Doctor Sydney Green. I own this house – and that man there broke into my home. Jarod and Sam there…" He pointed to the two men named. "…were here to help me take care of the woman who was shot."

The pair of officers returned from the kitchen and reported with a shake of the head, "No sign of anyone else in the house, Sarge."

"But I heard…" Sam complained.

The one female officer glared up into the tall sweeper's face. "We didn't see or hear anything that indicated the intruder wasn't alone."

Hoffmann didn't allow the disagreement to interrupt his thinking. "Do you need an ambulance?"

"No," Jarod assured him quickly. "I'm a doctor, and we have everything in hand otherwise. Thanks."

"You need to report gunshot wounds," Hoffmann reminded Jarod pointedly.

"You're here, and you know about it, right?" Sam interjected tightly. "She was shot, called Dr. Green here for help – and he called me. When we got to her house, there was someone in the house – not this guy. This guy was white – I saw his hands…" He pointed at Willy. "Anyway, I gave chase while he went upstairs and found her unconscious. He got in touch with Dr. Russell here – and considering that someone was out to make sure they'd finished the job, we brought her over here. Once Dr. Russell had Miss Parker stabilized, he called you folks – and you know the rest."

"Lyle is going to be very upset with all of you," Willy commented in a quiet tone that served as a threat only to those who were associated with the Centre.

"And you think I give a damn about that?" Sam retorted hotly.

"If you would like to take down a report of a gunshot victim here, that's fine with me," Jarod broke in, stepping in front of Sam to keep him from lunging at Willy. "But as it is, as soon as I know she's stable, we're going to be transporting her to the hospital where I work."

"So she IS going to be hospitalized?" Hoffmann busied himself with hauling first one and then the other of Willy's hands behind him and then securing them there with plastic tie handcuffs pulled nicely tight.

"Absolutely," Jarod nodded. "She has suffered a significant blood loss and will need supervision during the initial stages of recuperation."

"And you don't want her to do it closer here – in Dover, perhaps?"

Jarod exchanged a glance with Sydney. "Unfortunately, we believe that there are others who might wish to do her harm – such as the person Sam claims to have heard coming in the back that your officers couldn't find. I want to get her as far away and as safe as I can as quickly as I can – I hope you can understand…"

"How long will it take for me to press charges and give a statement?" Sydney asked, walking toward his front door and the coat tree there than held both a warmer sweater and his beret. "I assume it needs to happen at the police station?"

Hoffmann obviously didn't appreciate being rushed. "We'll need you gentlemen's names and addresses, in case we need to get in contact with you again – and then we'll be ready to transport the suspect here to the stationhouse."

Sydney glanced up the stairs, and Jarod could hear the older man's thoughts. It was time for someone to go upstairs and tend to Miss Parker. "Here," he said and reached into a pants pocket to pull out a small holder from which he drew a business card for the hospital where he'd been working. He turned it over and wrote his home address and cell phone number on the back. "This should be everything that you need from me – I work at Mercy General, but I'll answer my cell phone quicker."

Hoffmann took the card and studied it for a moment before slipping it into his shirt pocket. "Thank you, Dr. Russell." He turned to Sam. "Your turn…"

oOoOo

Hank huddled beneath the window at the side of the living room and listened to the conversation going on inside. Mercy General was the hospital HE worked at in New York City – a place with which he was intimately familiar. He could use his mentor's car and get there before the others – get in a position so that he would be able to take care of his target once and for all, along with all the others around her. That was what the mentor had told him that he needed to do – and that was what he'd do.

Briefly he wondered if his mentor would want him to try to free him – but he'd had no indication of that so far. He'd wait, however – follow the police cars to the station and see if his mentor would give him some sign. Then and only then – when either his mentor was beyond reach or once again free – would he head north toward New York. His target still lived – and his work wasn't going to be finished until he'd taken care of that little fact.

I decide who lives and dies, he told himself with mindless rote concentration. I decide who lives and dies.

oOoOo

Mr. Cox blinked as the rude jangling of the lab telephone broke through his slumber. Had he really fallen asleep, he wondered, or merely dozed while waiting for the latest session in the conditioning room to finish? No matter – a glance at the clock on the wall told the story. It was three AM – when most who would be calling a Centre research laboratory were making time with their pillows. "Cox here," he answered and then yawned.

"Your process has its flaws," Lyle's voice announced curtly. "For one thing, failing a quick kill on the first attempt results in confusion for the subject…"

Mr. Cox shook his head vehemently. "If the mentor follows up the in-lab process precisely, using the techniques and chemical reinforcements I explained to you properly, there will be no confu..."

"He screwed up," Lyle snapped angrily. "She's still alive – and from what my sweeper told me, on her way to a regular hospital in New York City. This is your fault…"

"You're assuming the test subject has bolted," Mr. Cox understood immediately. "I built a failsafe mechanism into the process. Eliminating the initial target is seen as the one task that MUST be fulfilled before the subject can allow himself to rest. Protecting the mentor – since that is the one connection between the subject and the Centre – is next highest on the list." Cox pulled his notes closer. "Tell me what happened."

"What should have been an easy assignment was botched from the very beginning," Lyle complained. "It should have been a clean kill – one shot through the window – but there was no way to make sure the target had been eliminated before others began interfering. They transported the target to a secondary location – and in the process of trying to infiltrate and neutralize the target a second time, the mentor was captured."

"But the test subject remains at large?" Mr. Cox asked anxiously.

"To the best of my knowledge," Lyle admitted begrudgingly. "But here I am, having to go down to the Blue Cove police station in just a few hours to see if I can't bail my personal sweeper out of jail…"

"I'm telling you that the subject's programming is most likely still in place," Mr. Cox assured the man he definitely wanted in the Chairman's seat when everything was all said and done. Lyle would be the one to be handing out that Tower office, after all – Miss Parker would see him not only unemployed, but most likely deported. "Then, even if the mentor has been taken out of the picture, the subject will still be driven to complete his assigned task – and let nothing stop him along the way."

"You'd better hope that this pans out the way you keep promising me it will," Lyle hissed his threat. "I've got a lot riding on this Hydra's Teeth project other than just the potential for future financial solvency for the Centre. If it fails, YOU are going to be the one I'm going to hold responsible – do you understand me?"

"Absolutely." Cox's blood was running cold. "I have every confidence in my process, however. The test subject WILL kill his target."

The soft click in his ear told him that Lyle had hung up on him. Mr. Cox swore softly in Afrikans and looked up to check the clock on the wall again. Three more hours to go. He ran his hand down his face to try to clear both the cobwebs and the outlandish idea that his pet project – the sole focus of attention for him for nearly three years now – could possibly fail.

Still, he'd been around the Triumvirate and the Centre long enough to know that often blame was attached to the most convenient target rather than the real culprit in any failure. After all, Miss Parker had borne the brunt of the failure of her team – and every other search team, including Lyle's – to capture and return the elusive Pretender Jarod to his predestined task in life. Sydney and Broots had been held to blame only very peripherally, and somehow Lyle had managed to elude being held accountable in the least.

That meant that, in this instance, HE would bear sole responsibility for the failure of the very first test subject to terminate his target effectively. Cox's eyes narrowed. That meant that Lyle would most likely come for HIM – and that couldn't be allowed.

He'd have to take on the job of training this next subject himself, it seemed.

He leaned over his computer terminal and called up the personnel records. He might not be able to get a cardboard cut-out of Lyle, but a target with Lyle's face on it would do just as well. And THAT would only take shipping an enlargement of his employment photo to a printer capable of handling that sized print.

At least he wasn't completely without resources…

oOoOo

Saturday morning

"Maricella?"

The accented voice on the other end of the line sounded tired. "Jarod? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me. Listen…"

"Have you found Hank?" she demanded immediately.

Jarod sighed. "No, I haven't – but I think I may have set things in motion for him to BE found."

"What do you mean?"

"Look," Jarod sighed again and cast a glance into the rear view mirror, where he could see into the back seat where Sydney was sitting with Miss Parker's head in his lap. "I don't have a lot of time to explain this – but I need a favor."

The Hispanic voice seemed to brighten. "What's up?"

"I'm bringing a woman in – and she's been shot. I need to suppress the report of a gunshot wound – just for a day or so."

"Jarod?" Maricella's voice was sounding hesitant and wary. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

"Believe me, trying to find Hank and the people who took him…"

"TOOK him?"

"…has been a twisted journey," he finished. "I'll tell you all about it when I get back to New York…"

"Where the Hell are you?" she demanded.

"On the interstate," he told her truthfully. "I'll be there in about two hours. Just have a room ready, plenty of B negative blood on standby in case she needs it, and sleep the gunshot report for me."

Maricella was silent for a long moment. "She's that important to you, this woman?"

Jarod would have loved to have sought out his mentor for a little moral support, but held his gaze steadily on the road ahead of him. The early morning hours were always a very dangerous time to be traveling long-distance – so many of those on the road with him would be driving under the influence of sleep deprivation, just as he was. "She's that important to a lot of people, Maricella. Please…"

"Fine," she capitulated suddenly. "Give me her name, and I'll have her registered long before you get here.

Now Jarod did sneak another glance into the mirror at Sydney's dozing face, and then over at Sam in the seat next to him seated in stony silence. "Melissa Parker, aged 38. Thanks, Maricella – you're a doll."

"You say that now," she quipped in a wry tone and then sighed. "Two hours ETA?"

"Yup." Jarod glanced at the glowing numbers of his watch. "That should have us there sometime around seven-thirty."

"You're lucky I'm still pulling double shifts making up for your not being here as well as Hank," she reminded him archly.

"I owe you," he lowered his voice. "I swear I'll make it up to you."

"Just get your ass in here, Jarod," Maricella told him. "I'm suffering from friend deprivation – and you know how cranky I can get."

"See you soon," he chuckled at her and disconnected the call.

"Everything's set?" Sam asked in a tightly controlled voice from the passenger seat.

"As much as I can get it from here," Jarod answered, tucking the little cell phone back into his shirt pocket. "Face it, she need access to better medical care than I can give her by myself out here in the sticks – and a more public place where it will be harder for anybody to come at her."

"A hospital?" Sam's voice was mocking. "They are one of the most insecure places around."

"Only if the patient doesn't have a bodyguard in the room with her. That's where you come in," Jarod countered with more patience than he felt. "And while you and Sydney make sure nothing untoward happens to her, I go back and continue trying to figure out…"

"Yeah – just what the Hell were you doing driving back to Blue Cove in the first place?" Sam demanded harshly. "You'd think you'd know better than to get close…"

"It's a long story…"

"And you just said we have two hours," Sam reminded him sharply. "Should be a good way to make the time pass faster."

Jarod took a good look at the sweeper's face next to him – and saw the determination on it. If Sam were anything like either Sydney or Miss Parker, he knew he'd have no peace until he'd at least superficially explained himself. "It started about two weeks ago…"

oOoOo

Sydney roused to the sound of Jarod's and Sam's voices in the front seat of the mini-SUV, the road noises just a little too loud in his ear to be able to make out clearly what was being said. Jarod was doing most of the talking, and it was evident that Sam was asking questions about whatever was being discussed. It was interesting to watch two men who otherwise would be having very little if anything at all to do with each other interact without any overt animosity from either side.

He turned his attention then to the woman whose head lay still and wan in his lap. His fingers found her carotid artery with a practiced touch, grateful to feel the slow and steady pulse just beneath the skin. A brief furling of the brow indicated that she was beginning to come around – perhaps his taking her pulse had roused her.

"Just lie still," he said to her, bending down so that his face was closer to hers. "We're taking you to a hospital."

"Mmmmmnng… she managed as she struggled against the darkness that had held her for an indeterminate length of him. The sound of his voice was a comfort – if he were with her, things couldn't be all bad. "Sssssydney…"

"Hush," Sydney soothed and with gentle fingers straightened hair away from her face. "You're safe."

Slowly the grey eyes blinked themselves open, and took and equally long time to finally focus on the face hovering so close above hers. Awake now, she was aware of the deep ache that radiated from her left shoulder "Shot?" she asked when she'd summoned the energy again. That's right – she could remember that now. She'd been shot – and she'd called him…

"Yes," he confirmed, his concern very obvious in his gaze. "Sam and I got there just in time."

She groaned and reached for her shoulder with her free hand – only to have it captured by Sydney before it could find its target. "No – don't touch it. Jarod did the best he could under the circumstances, but we don't want to do anything that will start the bleeding again."

"Jarod…?" She tried to stir, but then had to bite back a cry as the sharp ache in her shoulder became a stab of agony.

"Yes, Jarod," Sydney soothed again. "Just lie still – we're heading to New York City and a hospital there. Hopefully Lyle won't be able to find you…"

The grey eyes closed and then opened again, focusing and diving into Sydney's warm chestnut gaze. "You think…" she began, summoning her strength, "Lyle did this?"

"It seems likely – he's as determined as you are to win this little game of one-up-man-ship you two are playing, and far less likely to stick to just political moves and simple white-collar sins to do so."

Miss Parker closed her eyes again and tried to relax against the grinding pain. That Sydney had found her and evidently summoned enough help that she was still alive was a relief – that it had been Jarod to once more ride to the rescue after all this time of staying completely out of the Centre's reach was almost beyond belief. She'd wonder about that one when she had more strength to focus on anything other than the bare essentials. "Where's Sam?"

"Right here, Miss Parker," she heard her sweeper respond and then felt a brief touch on her knee. "Up front here with Jarod – making sure the Lab Rat doesn't kill us on the road."

"Try to rest, Miss Parker," Sydney's gentle and hypnotic voice flowed over her like a warm breeze. "You're going to be all right."

She turned her head slightly so that she could lean her face against the soft abdomen of her old friend. "Promise?" she managed, struggling against the seductive darkness again as the throb in her shoulder was becoming almost too much to bear. If Sydney promised, then maybe – just maybe – she had it in her to trust him.

She felt gentle fingers caress her cheek. "I swear."

With a soft sigh she ceased her struggles and slid beneath the darkness again, finding a refuge from the agony of consciousness.

"How's she doing, Sydney?" Jarod called back in a business-like tone.

Sydney's gaze came up and met his former protégé's in the rearview mirror. "I'll be glad when she's in that hospital," he admitted truthfully.

"So will I," Jarod replied and glanced once more next to him, only to see Sam nodding agreement. "The sooner the better.

oOoOo

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" Lyle sputtered.

Officer Finley merely shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir, but until Mr. Grant can be arraigned on the charges pending against him, there is no possibility of posting bail."

"I need his help…"

Finley shrugged again and turned away. "I'm sure you do – but there's very little I can do to help you. It's up to the judge to set bail in a case like this, where the suspect was arrested inside the property into which he'd broken."

"Can I talk to him, at least?"

"Visiting hours are from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon," the officer told him over his shoulder. "Come back then."

Lyle knew he could stand there spitting and fuming, but that all of his effort would be wasted. Damned small town police departments anyway! Or at least, damn Mr. Raines for not making sure the entire department was safely and comfortably on the Centre payroll as well! He'd have to work from whatever little information he'd managed to get out of Willy during the phone call – and pray that Cox was right, and that the assassin sent after his twin wouldn't rest until she was as cold as a cucumber in a morgue somewhere.

He stomped out and climbed back into his sleek Corvette – and then slammed his hands on the steering wheel. Jarod had returned, of all people! Willy had said that the escaped Pretender had been right there, with Sydney and Sam. Where had he been for the last few years – and why did he have to choose NOW to wriggle out of the woodwork?

There was no alternative – he might as well go to the Centre and set things in motion to get Willy sprung and then sit and wait. Going to New York would accomplish nothing – the assassin didn't know HIM. If he showed up at Mercy Hospital, Sam would recognize him immediately – and the hospital was just too public, damn it! Not too public for a nameless assassin to walk in, do his job, and then get himself caught – but certainly too public for him to have an open spat with Sam, Sydney or, God forbid, Jarod!

Knowing Jarod, the damned Lab Rat was capable of calling the cops on him for the murder of his brother if for no other reason than to embarrass and make life hard for him – and he refused to give the man the chance. Knowing Sam – even just in terms of running into him when his interests conflicted with his sister's – he'd not last more than about a minute before the big man would have him on the floor in a whimpering heap. And Sydney would happily drug him as talk to him reasonably.

No, it would have to be Willy. With this latest incident on the books, it would be logical to say that Willy had become obsessed – that he'd followed Miss Parker to New York to do her more harm. It would be tricky, but letting Willy continue to take point on directing the Hydra's Teeth assassin would absolve the Centre and its administration of any blame.

Feeling just a little better for having at least the framework for his actions over the next few hours all mapped out, Lyle slipped the key into the ignition and started up the powerful engine. He revved the engine, delighting in the sound of power and the sensation of the rumbling surge of restrained motion through his body despite the comfortable padding and leather upholstery. Impudently and rebelliously he pulled away from the curb, leaving black streaks and the sound of screeching tires behind him in his wake.

God, but he needed coffee!

oOoOo

Gabe Watson was a patient man – and nothing could convince him more of the rightness of his attitude than the kind of event that had just happened. It wasn't often that he was summoned into the Assistant Director's office – and it was even more rare that he was handed the thing he wanted most as if on a silver platter. But that was the way he'd felt walking away from the Federal Building in New York City, two slender documents in his pocket. One gave him the authority to detain and hold one Lyle Parker for questioning in the disappearance of Hank Kellogg and several other homeless men – and the other gave him the right to search the premises of the Centre facility in Blue Cove for any signs of their whereabouts.

It was a dream come true – and Watson could imagine the many arguments that had taken place in the upper echelons of the FBI. He'd known this case – odd and disturbing, with eyewitnesses identifying Mr. Lyle Parker as one of the ones taking part in the kidnappings – had had the potential to break the enforcement agency free from those who seemed determined to keep the Centre above the law. This case had already begun to surface in the newspapers and on the broadcast news – and no doubt the pressure from any number of public agencies to start uncovering answers was growing in geometric proportion.

He climbed into his car and relaxed against the headrest. All he had to do now was assemble a team and travel down to Blue Cove, Delaware, to execute those warrants. He tipped his wrist to check the time and then drew out his cell phone. The phone number for that city detective who had broken the case wide open was in his notebook – and he'd promised to call him and tell him when movement against the Centre in Delaware was imminent.

"Jarod Russell," came a tired-sounding response.

"Detective," Watson let his satisfaction fill his voice. "This is Special Agent Watson."

"Special Agent…" the detective's voice had roused with both warmth and curiosity. "I didn't expect to be hearing from you this early in the morning…"

"I just thought you would be interested in knowing that I have in my possession the warrants to detain this Lyle Parker and search the Centre premises for any kidnap victims," Watson announced proudly. "I'm putting my team together as we speak – and I'll be coordinating with the FBI office in Dover. If all goes well, we should have at least some of our answers within the next few hours."

"That IS good news," Detective Russell responded with a similar measure of satisfaction. "You'll keep me abreast of any new developments in the case?"

"Absolutely, sir." Watson knew the detective really had no place to be asking such a thing, but his involvement in bringing this earth-shaking case to light couldn't be taken lightly. "I should be updating you some time this evening."

"I look forward to your call, then," the detective replied, "and thanks for the update. Good luck."

"Keep up the good work, detective," Watson smiled and reached with his thumb toward the disconnect button.

"Oh, and Special Agent?"

Watson's brows furled. "Yes?"

"Keep in mind that the Centre's physical plant in Blue Cove is ten times larger underground than it is above ground."

"Underground?"

"Twenty-seven stories underground, to be precise…"

"And just how did you come about this information?" Watson demanded.

There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line. "I have an informant inside the corporation who has been telling me a great deal of what goes on there."

"Your informant…"

"Isn't one I think I can share," Jarod answered quickly. "But I thought, just in case, you should be aware…"

Watson didn't know whether to be angry at the lack of answers or grateful at the additional information. "Well, thanks again, detective. I'll be in touch."

Watson frowned as he tucked the cell phone into his pocket. An underground facility, carefully disguised with enough of an above-ground facility that most would never suspect. How much like the Centre that sounded!

He dragged out the two blue-covered warrants and re-read the text of the search warrant, then folded it contentedly. It was non-specific enough to cover a top to bottom search -–whether above-ground or below.

Something told him the day was going to be a VERY interesting one.

oOoOo

Hank calmly shot the gas station attendant and walked around the counter to start up the gas pump. Nothing and nobody could be allowed to stand in his way to getting to New York and taking care of terminating the target – not even teenaged boys trying to make enough money to be able to take out their latest girlfriend to the movies.

He'd tried several times to call his mentor – but there was no answer at the number he'd memorized in order to contact the man who knew what he was supposed to be doing. It had been hours since his last contact – and he felt torn. The mentor was important – seeing to his welfare being only second to finishing his assignment. And right now, that meant that he had to get to New York. He'd come back to Blue Cove and help the mentor when he was done.

It was, after all, the proper order of things. Go to Mercy Hospital, kill the target and all who surrounded her, and go back to Blue Cove and the mentor.

Once more the tiny voice began to shriek in the very darkest corner of his mind – trying to tell him that his friend had been there with the target, that Mercy Hospital was FULL of friends. That same corner of his mind cringed from the memory of the teenaged boy crumpled on the floor of the convenience store in a puddle of his own blood. For the briefest of moments, his hand lifted from the gas pump.

No! I decide who lives or dies! I decide!

Hank put the pump handle back, tightened up his gas cap and climbed back into the comfortable black sedan. His hand was steady as it reached for the ignition.

Only an hour or so more, and he could rest.


	9. Closing In

Chapter 9 – Closing In

Saturday morning

Maricela Sanchez couldn't help but notice the protective hovering that Jarod and his two male companions indulged in as they escorted the gurney with the wounded woman into the Emergency Room. Once there, each seemed to have his appointed task. The older man drew close and listened carefully to the attending ER physician as he examined the wounds, ordered antibiotics and a full unit of B-negative blood – and then it was he who began answering the personal questions when the nurse came with the admittance forms. From the way he was behaving, she was assuming that he was the woman's father or uncle – he had that parental look about him and never truly stopped hovering.

The second man – a big, husky, body-builder or bodyguard type – found a spot near the door and stood at near attention, feet apart, arms folded over a barrel chest, and ice-blue eyes sweeping the room and anyone who ventured into it with a wary and calculating gaze. A brother, perhaps? Certainly he was the kind of person that one wouldn't want to make angry – or approach the woman with anything but the most benevolent intentions.

As for Jarod, he hovered over his wounded lady friend for a moment with his face folded into the kind of expression that Sanchez had at one time hoped and prayed he'd turn in her direction. Then, once he saw that his friend was in good hands and getting the care she obviously needed, he gestured with a nose for Sanchez to follow him for a more private consult.

"Are you going to have any trouble side-tracking the gunshot report?" he asked, his voice tired.

"No," she replied in a near whisper. "But I can only give you a twenty-four hour window before I'd have to start answering questions about it."

"Twenty-four hours will be just what we need," Jarod replied a little absentmindedly. "At least, I hope so…"

Sanchez grabbed at his arm. "So tell me what's going on! What have you found out about Hank?"

"It's complicated," he answered gently, "and not the kind of thing that can be discussed right now and in here. But trust me…"

"And you're telling me that this woman has something to do with it?"

"She didn't have anything to do with kidnapping him, if that's what you're wondering," he told her quickly. "However, I'm convinced that Hank's disappearance and this shooting are related incidents."

"Related how?" she demanded.

Jarod merely shook his head. "I really can't go into that yet, Maricela. You're going to have to trust me for a little while longer." He sighed. "I'm going to need to speak to hospital security too."

Sanchez's dark eyes widened. "What's going on, Jarod?"

"It's entirely possible that the man who shot my friend here might be coming back. I need to clear it for Sam here to stay with her and keep her safe."

Sanchez blinked, and then she turned away to the white telephone on the wall. "Have hospital security report to ER 4," she spoke brusquely into the phone and then hung up. "Anything else I need to know?"

Jarod shook his head. "Not that I can think of at the moment…"

"What do I tell Mrs. Kellogg – or are you going to call her?" She pinned him with a piercing stare. "She's been calling me…"

Jarod was quiet for a moment. "I'll call her as soon as I know something more solid, I promise." He reached out and patted her shoulder. "The FBI are involved, and they're going to be moving in and hopefully finding Hank anytime now. Just be patient – and let me do what I need to do."

"The FBI!" That had Maricela's eyes wide with shock again. "Jarod… "

"Don't ask," he cautioned her gently.

Her face softened. "What have you done, Jarod?"

"I need to get back to my friends, Maricela," he responded instead. "And when this is all over, I'll tell you everything – I promise." Jarod knew he owed his friend the truth – and prayed that she'd understand when she'd heard the entire story.

Maricela Sanchez pinned him with a fierce glare from her ebony-black eyes. "I'm going to hold you to that, Jarod Russell," she said loudly enough that the others in the room glanced over in her direction. She spun on her heels and walked from the room, heading for the nurse's station from which she knew she had the best chance to waylay the gunshot report.

Jarod wandered back over to Sydney's side and watched silently as the nurses finished putting in the IV access into the back of Miss Parker's hand and began reaching for the plastic containers of blood and clear fluids to combat her hypovolemic condition. "How is she?"

"Well enough, considering," the older man replied. "You've had compliments on your surgical technique, by the way." He watched as the doctor motioned to the orderlies who had been summoned. "I'll go up with her to her room."

"Take Sam with you," Jarod beckoned to the sweeper with his eyes. "I don't want Miss Parker without one or the other of you in the room at all times until this is over."

"I hope you intend to let hospital security know that I'm not gonna let them kick me out when visiting hours…" Sam began in a threatening tone.

"Down, big fella!" Jarod shook his head. "That's exactly what I'm gonna do next. I don't want you to leave her side for any reason."

"Do you think she's out of danger here?" Sydney asked cautiously.

"No," Jarod replied honestly. "I let it be known where we were going to be taking her within Willy's earshot. If Lyle wants her that badly, he's going to have to come a long way out of his way to get her…"

"You set her up as bait?" Sam's voice hadn't risen, but the threat quotient it contained had just hit maximum – and his hand grabbed Jarod's lapel roughly. "If this place weren't public, I'd…"

"I just made sure that you'd be able to tell when Centre personnel came strolling in your direction down a hospital corridor where they don't belong," Jarod snarled back. "It should make them stand out like a sore thumb on a hitchhiker." He ripped Sam's grip from his clothing. "Back off – I'm on YOUR side, remember?"

"Sam!" Sydney's worried whisper did more to rein in Miss Parker's devoted sweeper than Jarod's words could ever do. "We need to stay with her now, and keep her safe."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "This isn't over, Lab Rat."

"When it is, I'll make sure you know where to find me," Jarod answered boldly, facing the huge sweeper without fear.

"Someone called hospital security?" a voice sounded from behind him, and Jarod whirled around to find himself face to face with a security officer in a nattily pressed uniform. The man's face was familiar – he'd seen him patrolling the corridors of the hospital often enough since he'd come to work here.

"Sam!" Sydney called as the orderlies began wheeling Miss Parker's gurney out the door and in the direction of the elevator. With a final glare, Sam turned away from the escaped Pretender to accompany his boss.

"Yes, officer," Jarod replied, his eyes following the gurney and its trailers until it went out of sight around a corner. "I want to inform you that the woman who was just admitted has a bodyguard who will be staying in her room full-time – visiting hours and otherwise…"

"Who are you…" the officer began, and then stopped as Jarod pulled his hospital identification from his wallet. "Oh – OK. You'll have a form to fill out, Dr. Russell…"

"Let's get the paperwork done, then," Jarod sighed and followed the security man from the now-empty ER room.

oOoOo

Hank grumbled and slammed on the brakes to bring the car to a halt for the fourth time in the last two minutes. The absolute last thing he needed now was a traffic jam – he could see from the skyline that he was very close to where he needed to be. Just a little bit more…

The cars in all four lanes of traffic for as far ahead as he could see were all sitting still on the pavement. He'd seen this sort of thing happen before – more than likely, some jerk had had a flat tire and needed to pull off to the side of the road. The subsequent slow-down of the cars behind him as he maneuvered his way to the safety of the shoulder of the road meant that a knot of traffic had soon formed. He even remembered reading an article discussing the theory – known as the Chaos Theory – while he was still an undergraduate.

Knowing the cause of the obstruction in his way didn't help HIS cause any, however. And while something pushed hard at him to just climb out of the car, walk forward with his rifle and eliminate the person most responsible for this mess; he sat motionless and seething behind the wheel. It was one thing to take out a gas station attendant who was alone and unarmed. It was another entirely to go hunting in such a public and populated a place.

A tiny corner of his mind rebelled at the mere idea of walking forward and shooting someone – he was a physician, for heaven's sake! He'd taken an oath to "do no harm…"

That corner was once more shut down quickly. "I decide who lives and dies," Hank recited almost unconsciously. "I decide who lives and dies."

He could wait. The target wasn't going anywhere. All he had to do was get to Mercy Hospital and start looking through each of the rooms. He could be patient.

oOoOo

The sight of the Centre Tower rising above the green sea of grass that surrounded it was just as picturesque and imposing as any photograph of the facility Gabe Watson had seen. There was money here, he realize, LOTS of money. And, if Jarod Russell's informant was to be believed, there was even more to this place than met the eye – twenty-seven floors of underground offices and God-only-knew-what to be searched. Watson found himself fighting a shudder. A man could go into this place and never be able to find his way out again.

Suddenly he wasn't quite sure that the four sedans that followed him – each with four FBI agents inside under his command – would be enough to handle the job with which he'd been charged. Watson wondered for a very brief moment if any of the higher authorities that had finally pried loose the warrants in his pocket had any idea of what they had sent him up against.

He glanced over at Special Agent Okui, who had been assigned as the driver of the lead car. "Might as well get this ball rolling," Watson gestured vaguely. "Let's go."

The small motorcade pulled up the drive into the Centre property, with Watson's car being the one to pull up alongside the guard's kiosk in front of a very substantial and probably electrified gate. Okui compliantly rolled down his window so that the uniformed guard could peer into the car. "Yes, sir?" the man asked in a polite and almost uninterested tone.

Watson had his FBI identification badge out and in the officer's face. "This is the FBI. I have two warrants to serve…"

"You'll have to wait while I call…" the uniform began and started to move back toward the kiosk.

"Jackson," Watson ordered tersely, and one of the Special Agents erupted from the back seat of the car with a gun drawn to usher the now pale-faced uniformed guard away from telephones and other means of warning those in the facility ahead of the coming invasion. Jackson had the guard handcuffed and sitting helplessly in the kiosk in very short order – and then pushed the button to open the gate and allow his federal comrades entrance to the Centre.

Jackson would be preventing any traffic in or out of the Centre now for the duration of the search – but Watson wanted to make sure he wasn't leading a suicide squad. "Call for reinforcements," he directed before Okui could gun the engine and move away down the drive. "Something tells me that we need at least twice the manpower we've got now."

"Yes, sir."

Even as Watson's car pulled ahead through the now opened gates, he could see Jackson on his cell phone – hopefully pulling out of the office in Dover several more carloads of agents who could assist with this operation. The closer he drew to the massive structure, the more he was convinced that he needed a veritable army – not just a healthy squad of agents.

The cars all pulled to the curb in front of the modern fountain that graced the entrance to the cement and stonework structure. Nineteen FBI agents, their identifications all tagged to their clothing in obvious places, waited for a sign from their leader to proceed inside. All it took was a nod from Watson, and the body of agents moved as if one toward the glass doors and the uniformed security men just inside.

"What the…" Watson heard the one guard grumble just before he had his warrants out and under the man's nose.

"I am Special Agent in Charge Gabe Watson," Watson announced before anybody else had a chance to say a word – his voice firm and determined, "and my men and I are here to execute these federal warrants. Your cooperation will be expected, or you will be charged with interfering with a federal officer in the commission of his duty and arrested. Now, the first warrant is to detain a Mr. Lyle Parker for questioning. I will need you to tell me precisely where Mr. Parker's office is located."

"I can call him for you…" the guard offered, only to have Watson shake his head firmly.

"You will call no one. The other warrant I'm carrying with me is a search warrant. I am investigating allegations what there may be several men held against their will in this facility. I will need the blueprints for the entire facility made available to me."

"This is highly irregular," the guard braved.

Watson's eyebrows lifted. "Are you refusing to cooperate with a federal officer, sir?"

The guard's mouth flopped open a few times, and then he capitulated. "I'll call the Engineering Department – they should have the blueprints or know where they're kept."

Watson nodded contentedly. "That will do for starters…"

Back further, against a wall, a sweeper reached into his pocket for his cell phone.

oOoOo

"What is it now?" Lyle demanded into the telephone.

"It's Virgil, from the lobby," JeiLing answered him in her musical accent. "Apparently there are some federal agents here wanting to see you, sir – and search the premises. Something about some men held against their will…"

Lyle frowned. This was the absolute last thing he needed to hear right now – not with Cox's latest progress report sitting on his desk about the continued success in programming the subjects to be as receptive as empty vessels waiting to be filled with one driving, lethal purpose. "Call our legal department – I want a Centre lawyer preparing a brief appealing this invasion of privacy by the FBI. And let the agents in the moment they get up here."

JeiLing nodded, her long, straight ebony hair moving like silk over her shoulders and down her back as she did. "Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"No," Lyle considered for a moment. The one action that needed to take place would have to originate from his office as soon as he got off the phone with his secretary. "That will be all."

The second he heard the click of the other end of the line disconnecting, he was pushing the buttons to connect him with Mr. Cox's extension down in his laboratory complex on SL-25. The telephone there rang twice before being picked up. "Biogenics Department," an innocuous lab assistant answered with a bored tone.

"Give me Cox," Lyle demanded brusquely.

"He's resting…" the assistant hedged protectively, obviously coached to prevent anything but emergency matters to reach the researcher during his rest periods.

"This is important," Lyle blurted angrily, "and I happen to be your boss. Get Cox on the line right now, or you can start looking for another job within the hour."

"Y…yes, sir!"

Lyle didn't dare let himself feel the satisfaction of once more proving to himself that a man could get more from a threat from a position of authority than he could with a honeyed tongue. If the FBI were looking for men taken against their will, the last thing he needed was for the Hydra's Teeth data to be discovered lurking on the Centre mainframe's hard drive.

"Yes? What is… this is Cox…" Mr. Cox's voice was obviously only very briefly removed from slumber.

"The Feds are here – looking for me and looking for people being held against their will," Lyle announced without preamble. "No doubt that search warrant they have will be fairly broad – which will give them access to the mainframe."

"Damn!" Cox was waking up quickly.

"Purge your terminal of all relevant data – and do what you can to purge the mainframe as well. They don't know precisely what they're looking for – and we don't have to make it any easier for them to find anything before our legal eagles can quash this investigation like a bug."

"What about the subjects?" Cox asked anxiously. "Some of them are just freshly programmed – they aren't ready to be thrust back into the general population… And the others…"

"We can't let them be found." Lyle wiped at his face with a hand. "Take them down into SL-27 – there are some living spaces not too far from that little laboratory of yours that nobody is supposed to know about..."

"It's a disaster area down there!" Mr. Cox complained. "There are no secure areas…"

"Then take ten sweepers with you and make the place secure," Lyle snarled. "Just get them out of the way – out of sight. There's no official record of SL-27 anywhere – even the formal blueprints only have 26 subfloors detailed. You and your project and all your research data should be safe down there until this has all blown over."

Lyle heard Mr. Cox move the telephone handset from his mouth and shout orders to the assistants in a anxious and excited tone. "What about you?" the South African asked as if suddenly remembering his nominal employer.

"Don't you worry about me. Just get Hydra's Teeth under wraps, so that when I get clear of all this, we can go head full steam."

The door to Lyle's office suddenly burst open, and three men in inexpensive business suits bulled their way through. The one obviously in charge pulled a thin sheaf of papers wrapped in blue from his pocket. "Lyle Parker, I am Special Agent in Charge Gabe Watson, and I'm going to need you to come along with these agents in the matter of a serial kidnapping that took place in New York City a few days ago…"

"Gentlemen," Lyle smiled his widest and most winning smile at the men. "Please, sit down. How can I help you?"

"I don't think so." Watson gestured to one of his agents to take Mr. Parker into custody – including slipping handcuffs onto the man's wrists. "You are to be taken to New York City to be questioned and detained there, pending the outcome of our investigation here. You have the right to be silent – anything that you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning – if you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you. Although…" Watson looked about the office with a critical eye, "I seriously doubt you'd have that problem." He held out his hand in an obvious gesture for the man to come along quietly. "This way, Mr. Parker…"

"Of course," Lyle was the epitome of cooperation, all the while his mind was spinning. The call to the president of the stockholders' association had been made to pass along the regretable news of his twin sister's untimely demise at the hands of a random killer. Cox would be moving his pet project and be out of sight long before these yokals would get anywhere near the lab. He could relax – not much, but a little. He smiled at JeiLing as he was pushed out of his office in front of the federal agents. "Call Legal," he directed her. "Get a lawyer assigned to this immediately."

JeiLing's almond-shaped eyes opened wide at the sight of her daunting employer so thoroughly controlled by others, and she nodded compliance.

oOoOo

Saturday afternoon

The light coming through the window of the private room into which Miss Parker had been settled had taken on the brilliance of just after high noon. Sam had settled into one of the two comfortable chairs in the room, sitting just beyond the rest room door as a barrier between Miss Parker and anyone who might want to make their way into the room to her. Sydney had taken the second comfortable chair and placed it within arms reach near the hospital bed, ready to respond the second she roused. Jarod had paced back and forth for a while until glares and grumbles from both of the other men had sent him over to the window to stand and stare out absently.

It was very difficult for the former Pretender to sit on the sidelines and wait – out of control of the circumstances for the time being. He hadn't really had the time to plan this Pretend out the way he normally did, and it was a shock to discover that Pretending in the way he had once indulged was a skill that rusted with disuse. Even now he knew that he really needed to get himself back to the precinct house so as to pull a neat end to that façade. The time had come to let Jarod Holmes fade back into the woodwork from which he'd been crafted of whole cloth before either the NYPD or the FBI started asking questions. But…

Jarod turned his head slightly and gazed at the woman lying so still and wan against the crisp white hospital linen. It had taken so very little for him to toss aside years of planning and execution in falling away from the Centre radar – to run back to Sydney for help and run to Miss Parker's aid when circumstances had turned against her. Being here in a room with the two of them – even though under the watchful and distrusting eye of Miss Parker's pet sweeper – felt almost relaxing. He was at home with them – he didn't need to pretend that the first thirty-some-odd years of his life had been but prologue. They knew him better than anybody else in the world.

That was a comfort he hadn't realized had been missing for the past five years. He was glad to have his parents – his real parents – back in his life again, grateful for every day and moment he'd been given to get to know them better and build a life for himself based on reality rather than manipulative genius. He'd even begun to get on better terms with the young man who was his biological duplicate – a young man who resented being constantly weighed against him progress-wise and had for a time a year or so ago become quite rebellious and angry. Only as Jarod had begun to make a life for himself as a psychiatric resident while celebrating his clone's independence in wanting to pursue a career in structural engineering had the boy begun to feel that he was moving out from under an insurmountable shadow. Ethan lived in New York – a software engineer for a security company – and a frequent visitor to the little apartment Jarod called home now.

But being in the room with Sydney and Miss Parker, Jarod felt a long-denied piece of himself stand up to be recognized. This was his past – part of what had made him the person he'd become eventually. He couldn't deny his deep and abiding connection with these people if he wanted to.

Three sets of heads jerked up when the cell phone in Sydney's pocket began to chirp.

Jarod frowned. "Who…?"

Sydney flipped the phone open and gazed at the caller identity. "It's Broots," he announced and put the device to his ear. "Where are you?" He nodded, listening, then looked at Jarod. "He's here in New York."

"And he has his daughter with him, safe?" Jarod asked.

"Debbie's with you?" Sydney relayed the question, then nodded the answer back to Jarod. He listened carefully, for Broots was talking to him – and then put his hand over the mouthpiece. "He wants to know if you still want all that information on Hydra's Teeth?"

Jarod blinked. "Information on what?"

"On that project of Lyle's and Cox's that made use of the homeless…"

Jarod straightened and stalked over to Sydney, his hand outstretched. "Let me talk to him."

Sydney didn't hesitate, but handed the little device up to his former protégé.

Jarod put the phone to his ear. "Mr. Broots."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "J….Jarod?"

"You say you have information on the Hydra's Teeth project from the Centre Mainframe?" Jarod asked, not letting Broots' surprise distract him.

"I copied as many of the files as I could to disk before I left to pick up Debbie from school," the computer technician explained patiently. "I knew how long it took me to design a way to find them in the first place – and so how easy it would be for them to just disappear them. Sydney said they were important…"

"I have a friend who may have ended up caught up by Lyle and Willy when they went looking for research subjects," Jarod explained in return. "I have evidence linking the two of them to the kidnappings – but nothing connecting the Centre as an organization to a reason FOR the kidnappings." Jarod began to smile. "This could be the beginning of the end."

"Jarod!" Sydney hissed at him urgently.

Jarod held his hand up for his old mentor to restrain his reaction for a time. "Can you come to Mercy Hospital?" he asked Broots hopefully.

"I suppose," Broots hedged. "Why?"

"Because Sam and Sydney and Miss Parker are here – and it would be easier for you to be under our protection here than off by yourself somewhere…"

"Except that you have the Centre coming straight to us," Sam grumbled at him with a glare that Jarod blinked and ignored.

"It will take me some time…"

"Call when you're downstairs," Jarod directed. "I'll come down to you and bring you up here. I can always put you and Debbie and Sydney up at my apartment for the evening, once we get our game-plan in motion."

"Game-plan?" Now Broots sounded less than confident.

"I'll talk to you when you get here," Jarod told him firmly. "Make haste carefully, Mr. Broots." He disconnected the call and handed the cell phone back to Sydney. "You were going to say?"

"You don't need to bring down the entire Centre," the Belgian scowled as he slipped the little phone back into his shirt pocket. "Miss Parker is ready to take charge of the Centre and turn it around. That's why Lyle did this!" Sydney's hand swept out to gesture at the woman in the bed.

"I know! I just am having trouble with squaring that idea with knowing how much she wanted to be free of the place once and for all," Jarod complained with a frown.

Sydney shook his head. "She knows as well as anyone the good that the Centre could do with the proper hand at the rudder. After all of this, she deserves her chance."

Jarod's gaze shifted between his old mentor and the woman who had spent the better part of six years trying to chase him down – and then he sighed. "I'm not sure I'll be able to stop it from going that far," he stated apologetically. "The FBI – or at least some elements within the agency – has wanted to put the Centre under a microscope for years, and now they have that chance…"

"Not everything the Centre does is evil, Jarod," Sydney said softly. "A lot of GOOD things have come out of the Centre – although I'll admit the bad overshadows them most of the time."

Jarod shook himself and then seemed to come to a decision. "I need to go. I need to finish things at the police station so that law enforcement doesn't come looking for me too.

Sam sniffed derisively but managed to keep his commentary to himself. "Going to be gone long?"

"An hour, maybe two," Jarod replied. "If I'm going to be much longer than that, I'll give you a call."

"What about Broots?" Sydney looked up sharply. "You said you'd be here when he got here…"

Jarod's brows knit for a moment. "Sydney, why don't you go down and wait for him in the lobby. Sam can stay here and keep Miss Parker safe in the interim. "Just, when everybody's here, everybody stay in one place so we can control the situation better."

"I don't like it," Sam grumbled.

"That really doesn't matter much to me," Jarod retorted. "There's a certain order that goes with a successful Pretend – and I don't intend to start leaving nagging questions with the wrong people. I have a life to go back to that doesn't include living life quite so close to the edge."

"Let him go," Sydney interfered before Sam could utter another word of protest. "The sooner he leaves, the sooner he'll be back." Sydney blinked and rounded on Jarod. "You ARE coming back, aren't you?"

Slowly the Pretender nodded. "As soon as I do what needs to be done, I'll be back – I promise." His eyes impacted with Sydney's. "I promise," he repeated and then walked briskly from the room.

"He's not coming back," Sam shook his head and sneered. "He's gonna run to save his skin."

"I don't think so," Sydney countered thoughtfully. "I raised Jarod to never make promises he has no intention of keeping. He'll be back – just maybe not as quickly as we might like."

oOoOo

SL-27 had been partially renovated after a bomb had demolished nearly all of its contents over seven years before – several of the small living spaces had been restored, as well as some of the laboratory space. All of it, however, looked decidedly ominous in the pinkish glow of what was essentially emergency lighting – and Mr. Cox could only pray that his memory was as good as he'd always claimed it to be.

"Down that hallway, you'll find living quarters doors," he pointed down one semi-lit corridor and stood aside. "Take them down there and give each one his own space. We'll work out who's stored where later."

Nine sweepers nodded obediently and led their particular charges forward into the semi-darkness by a tightly-held arm. Mr. Cox watched the living embodiment of two years' worth of hard work placidly tromp under the control of their muscle-bound escorts and then turned to look about him. His arms were aching with the weight of paper copies of all of his formerly computerized notes, memos and reports – the documentation of what he'd done and both the reasons for it and the outcomes. Without this, Hydra's Teeth would never be more than the nine men who had just been taken from one underground cell to another a little deeper into the ground.

He pushed one door open with a foot and scowled. This room obviously had missed out on Mr. Raines' renovations – the floor was covered with charred debris and partially melted and burned furniture. The second door he pushed open disclosed a long disused office that had only been singed around the edges. There was a metal desk next to the wall that, with but a little cleaning, could be made serviceable until Lyle could dispatch maintenance down here to make the space genuinely useable. Mr. Cox hesitated only a moment at the thought of the dust and ashes contaminating his precious research before he let the heavy notebooks and file folders drop carefully onto the desk.

"Anything else?"

Mr. Cox whirled around, startled, to find himself face to face with one of the nameless sweepers that had been ordered to his disposal. "Yes. Set a guard on the hallway near the spaces for round-the-clock surveillance."

"And the rest of us, sir?"

"Go on," Mr. Cox nodded tiredly. "Make sure the access is closed behind you when you leave. We don't want anybody tripping over it, now, do we?" He signed. "And get someone from janitorial down here. I refuse to hide in this pit as it is."

The sweeper nodded and removed himself from the doorway of the half-burned office.

Mr. Cox looked about him in dismay. Something was very amiss – he'd been thinking that his next center of operations would have been a comfortable office up high enough to have large picture windows overlooking the magnificent park that surrounded the Centre Tower. Now here he was hiding in a deep dark hole.

He ambled out of the office and cast a gaze toward where the sweeper designated to be left behind to watch the research subjects was settling into a metal chair retrieved from somewhere. No! There was no way in hell he was going to stay down here like a criminal hiding from the law. He'd done nothing wrong – and that which would have been misunderstood had been carefully hidden away.

"I'll be back," he announced to the sweeper and spun on his heel. Now all he had to do was remember where the ladder leading upwards was.

oOoOo

Angelo's head tipped to the side as he sampled the thoughts and emotions pulsating from the strange man's mind. Already this stranger had spent nearly an hour staring down at the funny dark papers that were the Centre – from time to time pausing in his studies to speak to other strange men who looked to him and direct them into yet another corner of the vast underground labyrinth.

The man's mind was very clear – he was looking for people. Angelo frowned slightly. People who didn't belong here?

Then the little empath blinked in surprise. The man's mind had brought up a face – a face that Angelo knew very well. This man knew Jarod – knew Friend – and had seen him not that long ago! This man was HELPING Friend!

In that case, Angelo could help the man.

He pushed through the grate and lowered himself soundlessly into the back corner of the little office into which The Man had settled and slowly moved forward until, with a start, The Man noticed him.

Gabe Watson frowned slightly. He hadn't heard anybody come into the office – and he certainly wouldn't have expected a visit from a person who obviously seemed to be mentally challenged. The little man blinked rapidly and tucked his head in a manner that just wasn't normal – but continued to approach him slowly. "Yes?" the FBI agent asked in what he hoped was a neutral tone. "Can I help you?"

"Angelo help YOU," Angelo said with a beatific smile. "Angelo knows. You follow."

"Follow you?" Watson asked with an indulgent smile.

The strange little man nodded vigorously. "Yes. Angelo show you ALL the secrets."


	10. Nowhere to Hide

Chapter 10 – Nowhere To Hide

Saturday Afternoon

Dr. Charles Van der Meer gazed down at the emaciated face and then glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Let's call it – time of death is sixteen-thirty-two hours," he announced to the surrounding nursing staff in a somber voice that befit the occasion of witnessing the death of the reigning Chairman of the Centre. He pulled on the crisp white sheet and covered the face of the deceased. "Send the body down to Pathology," he said, stepping aside so that the orderlies could get to the wheeled bed. Already one of the nurses was pulling at the white curtains that had surrounded the comatose patient and given him the illusion of privacy whether he needed it or not – there was no more need.

Willy stared numbly at the hospital bed and the now-shapeless mound that had, until just a few moments earlier, been his boss. Lyle's dispatch of a lawyer to arrange for his bail that morning still hadn't managed to pry him loose until well after noon – just in time to race back to the Centre and Mr. Raines' side and watch the skeletal Chairman draw his last few shuddering breaths. With William Raines gone, everything that held him to the Centre was now gone too. To make matters worse, there were FBI agents crawling through every nook and cranny of the place looking for, he'd heard, kidnap victims being held against their will – and Lyle had been taken into custody and removed from the premises in handcuffs. If his luck held, his turn in the cuffs was next – and this time, there wouldn't be a Centre lawyer Johnny on the spot to bail him out as quickly as possible.

For the first time he could remember in all the years he'd spent at the Centre, he didn't have the slightest idea what he should be doing – or for whom. He didn't have the slightest idea where the nameless man that had been sent after Miss Parker might have gotten to – nor was he really interested in finding out at this late date. None of that seemed to matter anymore.

It had been Mr. Raines who had brought Willy into the Centre, arranged for him to receive top training in marksmanship, martial arts and all forms of physical coercion and torture. It had been Mr. Raines who had kept him at the top of the food chain that was the sweeper corps – Mr. Raines who had taken care of him and seen to it that his paycheck was more than ample. Last but not least, it had been Mr. Raines that had sent him along with Lyle on this latest boondoggle – but Mr. Raines was no longer there to give him any direction or guidance as to whether the project would or even could continue without either Mr. Raines or Lyle at the controls of the Centre.

Willy sincerely doubted that Lyle would be willing to go to similar lengths for his sake – and considering that, his becoming as willing and loyal a retainer for Lyle Parker as he had been for William Raines seemed more than a bit far-fetched. After all, Lyle's entire agenda was wrapped up in his own delights and pet activities – where Mr. Raines had always kept the welfare of the Centre first and foremost in his consideration. Mr. Raines had even remarked several times about his misgivings about the day when Lyle took over the Centre and made the massive and powerful corporate behemoth complicit in deeds that pushed the limits further than they really ever should be pushed.

Willy shuddered. Mr. Raines had become the father-figure that he could look up to and emulate – there was nobody who could take his place. Lyle could wheedle and finagle and worm his way into the Chairmanship – or, heaven forbid, Miss Parker could find herself behind that big, ornate desk on the top floor of the Tower – but neither option would be one he wanted to be around to see.

His dark eyes met the watery blue of the attending physician without having a single emotion or tear apparent. "Thank you," was all he said – it was all there was to be said. Already the orderlies had begun to wheel the bed toward the back of the Renewal Wing and the service elevator that would take the body down another level to the in-house morgue. Willy looked about him at the sterile floor – at the stainless steel trays and carts holding medical machinery or assortments of shiny instruments. He had no reason to remain – he had no reason to stay in the Centre itself or in any capacity dealing with the Centre or its interests.

With difficulty, Willy pulled himself to his full height and straightened his shoulders. He was a member of the Centre elite after all – or at least, he had been for longer than he wanted to remember – a sweeper who had long been at the right hand of the man who wielded the true power of the Centre. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Without a single backwards glance, he strode purposefully to the swinging doors of the medical facility and headed toward the elevator.

He had an ascent of ten floors to figure out what his next move was – other than to put some serious distance between himself and the federal agents crawling through the Centre's entrails.

oOoOo

Jarod sighed. The benefit of having brought Miss Parker to Mercy General was that he knew the people here and trusted that she'd receive the best possible medical care to see her through. The downside, however, was that so many people knew him and had come to rely on his expertise. A trek to his car so that he could drive back to the precinct and let the Captain there know that his commander at the 47 wanted him back now had been sidetracked at least three times. Twice he'd been consulted on developments with his patients, whom he'd left in the care of trusted colleagues, and then he'd had to put Maricela Sanchez off again.

As he walked toward the front door of the lobby, he saw that he was going to be sidetracked once more – for coming through the glassed doors from the other direction was Mr. Broots and a very worried and much grown-up Debbie. The computer tech's eyes bulged as he saw who was standing on the other side of the door. "J…Jarod…"

"Mr. Broots," Jarod nodded and then looked at Debbie. "Miss Broots. You've grown quite a bit since last I saw you."

Debbie looked startled. "I've heard my dad talk about you, but I didn't know…"

"You were outside in the backyard of your dad's house the one time I visited," Jarod explained with a smile. "It was a very brief visit, and you didn't see me." He returned his gaze to Broots. "You have something for Sydney, I take it?"

Broots patted the over-the-shoulder bag that rested in khaki casualness against his right hip. "Right here."

"Then let's get inside so we can take a look at it, shall we?" Jarod suggested and indicated the hallway that led to the elevator. "The sooner we have everyone where I know they're safe, the better."

"How's Miss Parker?" Debbie asked with much more confidence than she felt.

"She's still unconscious," Jarod replied as the elevator door slid open. "They've given her some blood and some strong antibiotics, though – so I'm fairly sure she should be waking up sometime soon."

"Do you know who did this?" the young woman wanted to know.

Broots shot Jarod a cautionary glance that told the Pretender that there were still things that the man was protecting his daughter from knowing – this evidently being one of them. "We have a fairly good idea who's behind it," Jarod answered carefully, telling the truth without being entirely forthcoming. "We just need to be patient and a little careful for a little while longer."

"But why…"

"Debbie." Broots' one-word chastised his daughter into reluctant silence, and Jarod looked away so that she wouldn't bristle at the sight of him finding the exchange humorous at her expense. Debbie was obviously as intelligent as her father and quite possibly much more curious – which could spell trouble for the girl as time and her proximity to the Centre combined into a volatile mix.

She frowned and looked down at the scuffed toes of her tennis shoes. The three were silent for the rest of the elevator ride and the walk down the corridor towards Miss Parker's room.

Sam stood up and let the three get past him and into the room. Debbie's eyes were glued to Miss Parker's face – until Sydney rose and put out an arm to her, indicating that she should sit down in the chair he'd just vacated. Broots studied the face of his boss and then moved to join Jarod and Sydney in a huddle in a far corner near the foot of the hospital bed. "Mr. Broots…" Jarod prompted.

Broots pulled the strap of the bag from over his head and threw the covering flap back to reveal a thick pile of documents and then slid his hand in to pull out a jewel case with a writable CD disk inside. "Miss Parker wanted me to print out as much as I was finding – but when Sydney's call came, I started to save the files aside. I copied them all to disk just before we took off…"

Jarod took the CD case from the tech and looked at it for a moment. "What did you find out?" he asked after he'd looked back up again. "Give me the high points…"

Broots lowered his voice so that it would be hard for his daughter to hear. "Well, it seems that Hydra's Teeth was the Centre's newest answer to the cash flow problem. Mr. Cox had perfected a combination of chemical, auditory and sensory deprogramming and brainwashing techniques to take a person – say, a homeless man picked up off the streets – and turn them into an automaton willing to do whatever task their "mentor" sets them. Ostensibly, the ultimate purpose was to create an army of throw-away assassins, trained and single-minded of purpose whose connection to the person or agency whose dirty work they did was virtually non-existent."

"And…" Jarod prompted, his stomach turning. He'd already heard much of this from Sydney before – certainly there had to be more…

"And, apparently, Lyle and Willy went homeless-shopping for test subjects in New York City about the time Sydney says that your friend went missing." Broots' face wore an expression of sympathy. "Then Raines collapsed the morning after the other two took off – and Lyle took charge of the first subject to finish the process. Mr. Cox has actually complained to the Triumvirate that Mr. Lyle was jeopardizing the project by trying to rush it – stealing one of the subjects really before he was ready…"

"How much does Miss Parker know of this?" Jarod asked Sydney, who merely shrugged and pointed at Broots with his nose.

"Miss Parker only consulted with me at the very beginning," the Belgian explained, "and asked me to summon Angelo to her one day. Other than that…"

"She knows only a few details of what I found here," Broots finished. "I was going to give her the rest of this information today – but instead…"

Jarod pointed to the bag. "Is everything on this disk printed out and in there?"

"Nope," Broots answered. "Didn't have the time. You called and made it clear that it was in my best interests to get the hell out of there…"

"Still…" Jarod was quiet a moment. "Nine chances out of ten, Lyle has at least heard of the FBI raid on the Centre…"

"The FBI?!" Broots gaped.

Jarod's glance was sharp as it bounced meaningfully from Broots to Debbie. "…and has had Cox delete as much of this information from the Centre mainframe as possible before it gets found. That means this…" He waved the CD case in the air. "…may well be the only copy of some of this material. The FBI will need to see this to make sure Lyle is put away for a long time."

"What about your friend, Jarod?" Sydney asked gently.

Jarod's face grew tense. "With any luck, they'll find him along with all the others that were taken." He patted Broots on the shoulder. "I'll make a copy of the CD, so that Miss Parker can have a chance to read everything too – but I'll need to get a copy of this to the FBI. And now…" He moved toward Sam and the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can – and I'll get Broots, Debbie and Sydney to a safe place for the evening after that."

Sam's stony face didn't even twitch. "Just remember," was all the sweeper said in a low and threatening tone. The fact that the Lab Rat had managed to stem Miss Parker's bleeding and get her safely to a hospital notwithstanding, hanging her out as bait when she couldn't even defend herself was enough to make his blood boil every time he thought about it.

"I haven't forgotten," Jarod replied tersely. "Just keep them all safe until I get back. Be doubly alert – nine chances out of ten, that initial Hydra's Teeth subject is the one who is pulling the trigger on Miss Parker, and won't look like Centre personnel after all."

"I know how to do my job." Dark chocolate eyes clashed with ice blue. "You just remember that we're not through, you and me," Sam warned again and then looked away from Jarod with studied disinterest.

oOoOo

If Gabe Watson had had any reservations about allowing the strange little man to show him around the Centre, they had long since evaporated. The man who continually referred to himself in third person by the name of Angelo had so far taken the most computer savvy of the agents past an amazing series of passwords and security screens and into the very heart of the Centre mainframe. Then he'd led the agents on a department by department tour of the Centre underground facility – a tour that had made him glad when the reinforcements from Dover had arrived.

The Centre complex, both above and below ground, was massive. So much went on here – and so much of it was obviously of a very questionable nature – that Watson was fairly certain it would take forensic scientists and accountants and experts of all kinds months and months to sort through everything. It would take a long time to erase the sight of young twin girls staring at him somberly from opposite sides of a table in an otherwise sterile laboratory setting – each wired with dozens of leads that had been taped to a forehead or into the hair. The adult in the room had very pointedly avoided looking him in the eye – and Watson had come away from the room with the vaguest impression that something very wrong was happening there.

And still the odd little man with the disheveled mop of reddish was leading him onward – off into what looked to be an unused corner of a maintenance area. "Here!" Angelo beamed at the FBI agent and pointed downward.

Watson followed the pointing finger and then gaped. There was a manhole in the cement floor. "I thought this was the last sublevel!"

"Secret," the disheveled little man shook his head. "SL-27. Bad place." He seemed to shrink from whatever memories his words evoked for a moment, and then bent to pull expertly on the metal cover. "Down there," he pointed into what seemed like thick darkness.

Watson beckoned to Okui and nodded his head at the puddle of darkness at his feet. "We're going to need flashlights," he stated tersely. Okui nodded in response and walked away for a few paces, already talking into his cell phone and ordering what was needed. Watson turned back to his odd little guide. "Do you know what's down there?"

The shaggy head nodded surely. "Bad things. Bad man. Others very empty – waiting."

What the Hell was waiting for him in that darkness, Watson wondered, and what the Hell was an underground facility doing with a secret basement? Just what all HAD gone on here? He peered down into the dark hole, trying to penetrate the features of the landscape below him without success. The entire idea was bringing up the hair on the back of his neck.

The moment Watson saw one of his other men approaching with two high powered flashlights in hand, he pointed down and asked. "Will you show us?"

The odd little man backed away shaking his head vehemently. "Not go back. Angelo not go back there. Bad things happen…" He gazed up at the startled FBI agent with wild-looking eyes and then bolted around a corner.

Okui's dark eyes snapped back to his superior's face. "Odd duck," he commented wryly. "Definitely more than a couple fries short of a Happy Meal."

"I wonder. Considering everything he's shown us, I'm not so sure about that," Watson responded slowly and then held his hand out for one of the flashlights. "Ok, men – after me…" And after shining the light down into the hole to make sure there was some sort of ladder to facilitate his descent, Watson began to lower himself into the darkness below. He'd feel better when his feet were on solid ground again, so that he could pull his service revolver against whatever evil that impenetrable darkness hid.

oOoOo

"I had a meeting with Mr. Parker at this time, did I not?" Mr. Adin asked the Chinese woman seated so primly behind the desk in front of him. "Did you not call me with the time yourself only this morning?"

"I did, sir," JeiLing told the tall and powerfully built African representative calmly. "But some men came about an hour ago and took Mr. Parker away – and didn't leave word for how long he would be gone."

"This is VERY irregular," Mr. Adin frowned at the secretary.

"I'm sorry sir," JeiLing replied, her almond-shaped eyes wide and understanding. "Perhaps if we made another appointment for tomorrow…"

"Tell me, young woman, what kind of people were they that came in a simply removed Mr. Parker from his office?"

"Federal agents, sir," JeiLing reported without guile.

Mr. Adin's face folded even further into a frown. "If Mr. Lyle has been taken into custody, then who is responsible for the day-to-day operations of the Centre?"

JeiLing smiled up at the tall man. "Miss Parker, as head of Security, would be the one who would be sharing the responsibility for operations until the stockholder's meeting on Tuesday, sir. Would you like me to call her secretary to see if she's in her office?"

The African folded his arms over his chest. "That would be most appreciated."

oOoOo

Captain DiAngello waited until Jarod had closed the door behind himself before settling his backside against the corner of his desk and folding his arms over his chest. "So you're leaving us. Evidently they want you back over at the 47th."

"Yes, sir," Jarod nodded. He'd placed a call to the precinct about fifteen minutes before arriving, claiming to be Captain Fischer and formally requesting that his detective be released to return to his regular precinct. The call, and the paperwork that had been timed to arrive on DiAngello's desk that morning, were the two pieces of this Pretend that he HAD been able to plan out ahead – the exit strategy that would allow him to simply fade back into the woodwork and vanish. "Is there a problem, sir?"

"No…" DiAngello's dark eyes rested on this man who had breezed into his precinct, turned what would normally been a case to slip through the cracks and be forgotten into frontpage-crowding headlines and details. "I can't help but wish that I could keep you on here. You've done good work here, Holmes."

"Thank you, sir," Jarod smiled with wry humility. "But I belong on the other side of the city, sir. Not that I don't appreciate the offer…"

DiAngello straightened up and offered his hand. "If ever you get tired of that bunch over there…"

"I'll know what precinct to transfer to," Jarod finished for him, shaking the captain's hand warmly. "Thanks for putting up with me, sir."

"I look forward to seeing you make a bigger name for yourself, son." DiAngello nodded and slipped back behind his desk. "Good luck to you."

Jarod turned and walked from the captain's office and didn't let a sigh of relief go until he'd reached the relative safety of his desk in the bullpen. There was little that he would want to take with him – the picture of his parents and siblings that had graced his desk was already tucked into the slender filecase that held the CD Broots had given him. All that was left for him to do was to have a final interview with Watson when he got back from Blue Cove – and he could go back to being Jarod Russell, MD.

With a few hearty handshakes from the detectives in the room, Jarod threw his jacket over his shoulder and walked from the precinct.

Frank DiAngello watched the departure very quietly from the privacy of the glassed-in office at the south end of the bullpen – and then, when Jarod had disappeared through the side door leading to the parking lot, pulled a folder from his in-box and opened it again for the fourth time.

It was a response to his inquiry about Detective Jarod Holmes, sent to the captain of the 47th Precinct. In blunt terms, Captain Fischer had informed him that there was no detective attached to the 47th by the name of Jarod Holmes – and that there had been no inter-precinct transfer.

It had all been a rouse – cleverly designed and brilliantly executed – but one that had worked out well enough in the end for all concerned. The police department had been lauded in the print and broadcast media from the Times to the Village Voice to Dateline NBC as finally being proactive FOR the little people of the city in investigating the disappearance of the otherwise invisible street people. They were even receiving kudos for being willing to bring in the FBI when the case started taking unexpected turns. The Police Commissioner, as a result of all of the media attention, was riding higher in the polls recently than he had since taking office.

And now Frank DiAngello was on the horns of a dilemma. Did he blow the whistle on a man who had impersonated an officer of the law – and in doing so, created a public relations windfall for the department and all concerned? Or did he ignore the evidence sitting on his desk and let this man ride off into the sunset, never to be seen again?

He'd have to think about that one…

oOoOo

Miss Parker stirred and then moaned. There was a deep ache in her shoulder that made her entire body thrum in sympathy – although there seemed to be enough of a cushion between her mind and the pain that movement wasn't agony. She was comfortable – not like the last conscious thought she could remember with her head in Sydney's lap and his voice in her ear – and the hand that slowly moved up to touch at the painful shoulder wasn't caught back and restrained this time.

"Miss Parker?" Sydney's voice sounded from close by, and she could hear someone moving to get closer to her.

"Miss Parker?" This time it was Debbie Broots' voice coming from much closer to her and on the other side of the bed from Sydney. "How are you feeling?"

Slowly Miss Parker opened her eyes. Debbie had shifted from the chair at the side of the hospital bed to sitting next to her – and her face wore an anxious and slightly frightened expression. The grey eyes moved to the other side of her, where Sydney stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his face in a relieved smile. "Did anybody get the license number of that truck?" she quipped and tried to chuckle, then groaned as the use of the muscles of her chest made her shoulder ache even more.

"We're working on it, Miss Parker," came Sam's voice from the far side of the room – and it took her a moment to locate him in his chair against the far wall. "It was a hit-and-run, though…"

"Jarod's working on tying up loose ends where that's concerned," Broots moved up next to Sydney and drew her attention next. "He'll be back in a bit."

Miss Parker heard the soft snort of derision from her sweeper, but chose not to acknowledge it. Instead she turned her gaze to Sydney. "How bad?" she asked, knowing that he dared not tell her anything but the truth.

Sydney moved closer to the bed and reached down for a hand. "The bullet passed completely through – and Jarod's emergency surgery at my house kept you from bleeding to death. There is some muscle damage that will take time to heal – if at all." He patted the hand with his other. "You're lucky to be alive."

"We still gotta get through the rest of this," Sam remarked in thinly-disguised disgust. When Miss Parker's gaze landed questioning on him, he continued, "Seems the Lab Rat let where we were taking you out of the bag – so whoever it was that Lyle sent after you will know where to come to finish the job." His face tightened. "He and I have a score to settle between us over that one…"

"Down Sam," Miss Parker's voice may not have been strong, but it still wielded a tone of authority. "Jarod rarely does anything without a reason."

"He thought it was sweepers doing the job," Broots interjected. "Now, it seems, we find out that you have one of those folks from the Hydra's Teeth project aimed at you."

"And we aren't going to know what kind of person to look out for," Sam finished. "If it were me…"

Miss Parker tried to sit up, but quickly gave up when her entire upper body blossomed with devastating agony. "You stay still," Sydney soothed, a hand landing on her good shoulder and exerting just enough pressure to assure that his demand was obeyed. "You're in no shape to do anything but just lie here and get better."

"I need my gun…"

"That bastard ain't gonna get to you, Miss Parker," Sam's voice was low and deadly.

"Sam…" Sydney's eyes quickly darted to Debbie in a silent chastisement for the rough language.

"Uh…" Sam knew better, and felt chagrin for being so much a sweeper around a young woman he'd known as a child so many years before. "Sorry about that, Short Stuff…"

Debbie shrugged, unimpressed with the protectiveness of the men. "I've heard worse…"

"From me," Miss Parker added with a wry tone. She looked up at Broots. "But if the man is coming here, you and Debbie need to be elsewhere…"

"Jarod's going to take Sydney, Broots and Debbie to his place when he gets back," Sam announced.

"Where did he go?" she asked Sydney.

"To finish the Pretend he started when all of this began," Sydney told her frankly. "One of the men Lyle and Willy gathered up in their harvest of homeless was one of his friends."

Miss Parker lay back in her pillow and closed her eyes. "So his being involved is nothing but coincidence?"

Sydney glanced at Broots and decided to come clean himself before she found out some other way. "He called me when he had enough information about his friend's disappearance to see the Centre's fingerprints on it. I hadn't heard from him in years…" he added when Miss Parker opened her eyes and stared at him in shock. "He was desperate – and it sounded like something the Centre had no business doing in the first place…"

Miss Parker sighed and closed her eyes again. "You and I will have to have a long talk one of these days, Syd," she announced quietly. "But for right now…"

"Um…" an unfamiliar voice broke through the tension in the room. Maricela Sanchez found herself squared off with the big and husky protective man who had his body between her and the patient she needed to examine. "I'm going to need you all to step outside…" She saw the look of disbelief and stubbornness on that stony face and added, "I'm the one Jarod called to arrange her admittance without the gunshot report. You can stay – I'll draw the curtains for privacy – but…" she gazed at the others. "The rest of you…"

"Come along Broots," Sydney gestured and held his arm out until Debbie had started to move toward the door as well. "We'll be right outside…"

"Miss Parker?" Sam asked, his tone making plain his need to hear that his boss was willing to let him be removed from line of sight protection, knowing that an assassin was probably still stalking her even here in the hospital.

Miss Parker looked up into the dark eyes of the lady doctor to see only restrained curiosity and professionalism – and then nodded. "I'll be ok," she told him. "Let the doctor do her job. I want to get out of this place sooner rather than later, you know…"

As Sydney walked through the door, he could hear the curtain being drawn. He and Broots looked at each other in a shared lack of an idea of what to do next – and then he smiled. "I'll bet you're both hungry."

"Famished!" Debbie agreed enthusiastically. "Daddy had us leaving before we could even…"

"Then how about we go find the cafeteria and have ourselves an early supper – so that we don't strain Jarod's larder when he takes us to his place?"

Broots nodded, and then the three were heading back down the corridor. "Good thinking, Sydney," the computer tech added as they stood waiting for the elevator.

oOoOo

Hank steered the big sedan into one of the parking spots and turned off the engine, grateful to have finally wound his way through the traffic snarls and obstructions and arrived at his destination – albeit much later than he'd thought he would. He stared up at the building that rose seven floors above the level of the parking structure he was on and wondered just where, in that maze of rooms, his target had found her haven. Finding one person in an institution that took care of hundreds on any given day was going to be an interesting puzzle.

The rifle would do him no good – it was too big and bulky to carry into a busy public facility with security guards at regular intervals. Leaning over, Hank opened the glove box and smiled. He pulled out the handgun that had been stowed in there and quickly ejected the clip, finding it full but for one bullet. A quick glance had him reaching again for the second fully loaded clip that had been lying hidden by the weapon – a clip that he slipped into the front pocket of his trousers. The handgun slipped into the outer pocket of the sports coat he'd been given when his mentor had prepared him for his trek.

He was all set now. He had more than enough to make sure that everyone around his target was eliminated too. He climbed from the sedan and placidly pushed the lock button on the key ring. I decide who lives and dies, he heard echoed over and over in his mind as he walked toward the covered pedestrian crossing to the hospital proper. I decide who lives and dies.

oOoOo

Mr. Adin stormed up to JeiLing's desk, this time his face a mask of dark fury. "Young lady, you were to make an appointment for me to meet with Miss Parker. Why have you not called me back with a time?"

JeiLing's face was carefully schooled to genteel neutrality, but her stomach was wound up into knots. "I've been unable to get in touch with Miss Parker, sir," she began in an apologetic tone. "Her secretary said that she didn't come in to the Centre today – and that all attempts to reach her at her home and her cell phone have failed."

"This is intolerable!" Mr. Adin snarled. "The Triumvirate will hear about the careless way in which the Centre is being run lately!"

JeiLing flinched visibly. "I'm truly sorry, sir – I don't know what to tell you…"

Eyes as dark as hers but snapping in an impatient fury nailed her where she was sitting, stripping her of any illusion of protection behind her desk. "And you may need to find yourself another place of employment, when I'm finished speaking to my superiors."

The tall African stalked away and gestured brusquely to the heavy-set bodyguard who had hung back and away from his boss' business. JeiLing let go a long and shuddering breath. Her hand trembled as she reached once more for the telephone.

Surely SOMEONE knew where Miss Parker was…

oOoOo

Jarod sighed as he climbed from his car and carefully locked it. It had been a long afternoon, and it promised to be a long evening. He had the Broots and Sydney to get settled in his apartment, and then an entire night guarding Miss Parker with Sam as a companion to look forward to yet. He sincerely hoped that he and Sam didn't kill each other before they'd had a chance to nail the guy gunning for Miss Parker – and he was tired enough and too lazy to try to SIM his way through the probabilities.

Something in the way Captain DiAngello had looked at him had bothered him all the way back from the precinct. He'd reviewed his actions, the prep work he'd done to set the stage for the persona – and other than personal contact between the two precinct captains or the interference of someone who had run into him before, he couldn't imagine what could have been wrong. Still, senses that had served him well told him that something had gone wrong – that he needed to be on his toes. Pretending within a law enforcement milieu was a high-wire act in the best of times – and he had been rusty and not had the luxury of time to prepare properly.

Thankfully both his residence and place of work were far enough removed from there that he wouldn't have to worry too much about running into anybody he'd met during that Pretend. Hopefully by the time he'd gotten his degree and board certification as a psychiatrist, he could move a long ways away and improve the odds of having to manufacture more lies. That was one part of Pretending he didn't miss at all anymore. All he had to do now was handle the phone call from Agent Watson, and do what it would take to pull that end of the Pretend to a finish as well.

Then, with any luck, he could watch the ensuing mess that Lyle and the Centre would no doubt become play itself out on his portable TV on his breakfast table – safely removed both from the Centre and his Pretends by distance and the security of his real identity. Hiding in plain sight had, after all, been a very effective camouflage for a very long time – with no reason to change tactics in sight.

Jarod walked to the elevated pedestrian crossing, barely even noticing the man who had reached the other end of the walk before him and was now pulling open the door to the second floor of the hospital. So wrapped up in his own thoughts and musings was he that he never even bothered to give the man in the tan sports coat and black pants at the nearby nurse's station a second look as he walked toward the elevator. Jarod's back was turned so that he missed the delighted look on the nurse's face at seeing a friend she'd not seen for a while.

And he was far enough away that he didn't hear the nurse respond, "I'm sorry, Doctor Kellogg, but there's nobody on this floor with that nature of injury. You might want to check the surgical floor…"


	11. Checkmate

Chapter 11 – Checkmate

Saturday Evening

When Jarod rounded the corner and stepped into Miss Parker's hospital room, the scene before him was almost exactly as he'd expected. Sam had not budged from his protective position between Miss Parker and the doorway and gave the Pretender a muted glare as he moved past him into the room. Sydney and Broots were bent over a magnetic chess set – more than likely something that had been dredged up from Broots' shoulder bag – with both men intent enough on their game that they barely noticed his entry. Debbie was sitting in a metal folding chair and staring out the window at the darkening scenery beyond and four floors down.

"Thank you," Miss Parker said into the cell phone she was holding to her ear. "I look forward to seeing you on Tuesday, then." She nodded at whatever the voice on the other end was telling her. "Goodbye."

"You might not be out of here by Tuesday," Jarod warned her, pleased to see that she was at least aware and moving.

"I have a stockholders' meeting to chair on Tuesday," she replied archly. "I just spoke to the president of the shareholders' association – who was VERY surprised to hear my voice. It seems that Lyle had called earlier today to inform them of my untimely demise."

Jarod's voice grew cynical. "Are you all that surprised?"

"No," she sighed and drooped against her pillow grimacing in pain, "I'm more enjoying the opportunity to prove him a good-for-nothing skunk without having to play politics to do it."

"Jarod," Sydney spoke softly, "you need to get Broots and Debbie out of here before anything untoward happens."

"I know." Jarod pulled out his key ring and quickly removed a brass key that he held out to Broots. "This opens both the front door lock and the deadbolt on my front door," he explained as Broots put out a palm to receive it. "I'm not exactly sure I want to get too terribly far away again…"

"Just tell me where you need us to go," Broots slipped the key into the breast pocket of his polo shirt, "and I'll get us there in one piece."

"You too, Sydney," Jarod pointed out.

Sydney shook his head. "I think I'll stay a while yet," he announced firmly. "You never know – Sam might find he needs help…"

"I'm perfectly capable…" Sam straightened and objected in a raised voice.

"You're just as tired as I am, Sydney" Jarod stated observantly. Sydney's eyes had that slightly red tinge that the Pretender knew came from his mentor spending too many hours staying alert for one reason or another. Years ago, that look had come from the long hours and stress of finishing a complicated SIM within an arbitrary timeframe. This time it came from having spent the better part of the day worrying about Miss Parker's health and survival. "You know as well as I do that tired people make mistakes."

"I'm fine," the psychiatrist countered emphatically. "I'm not leaving Miss Parker alone."

"I need to get Debbie out of here," Broots' voice broke through the growing tension between protégé and mentor. "Jarod – can you draw me a map or something…" Broots once more reached into his shoulder bag and found a piece of paper and handed it to the elusive Pretender.

Jarod sighed and walked over to use her utility tray as a surface to write on. "It's about a half-hour drive from here," he pointed out, drawing lines and labeling them quickly. "You turn left on…"

"You need your sleep too, Syd," Miss Parker told the older man. "Sam can keep an eye on things…"

"I'll sleep when I know this is all over," Sydney shook his head firmly. "And until then, I'm staying put…"

"Sydney…" she began in a cautioning tone.

"No," he answered immediately with another shake of the head. "This time, I'm doing what I know is necessary – whether you like it or not. I keep thinking that if I'd managed to reach you by phone before… that this might not have happened…"

"That's my fault, Syd," Miss Parker soothed, "not yours. I was the one ducking your call."

"I'm still staying." Sydney announced in a tone of finality and relaxed back against the chair back.

Miss Parker glanced over at Jarod, as if pleading with him to help her convince Sydney to put himself out of harm's way – but Jarod could only shrug at her. Once Sydney was convinced of a course of action, it would take a literal act of God to make him change his mind. And as impressive as Miss Parker on her high horse could be at times, Jarod had a hunch that the older man acquiesced to her wishes more out of fondness than out of intimidation. One day Miss Parker would wake up to that fact – and probably blow a fuse – in the meantime, however, he knew better than to try to force the issue.

oOoOo

Mr. Cox ducked into a long-abandoned janitorial closet and pulled the door closed behind himself as silently as he could. The last thing he'd expected, under the circumstances, was a small cadre of agents coming down the access ladder to this secret sublevel – agents who had then begun a systematic search of the entire sublevel. Already the cache of cells holding his research subjects had been discovered – the sound of confused voices echoing through the otherwise empty corridors had been unmistakable.

Well, all his research subjects save two – the one that Lyle had demanded days ago and the one that he himself had loosed only hours earlier with a single directive. If Lyle ever showed his face in Blue Cove again, the man's orders were to shoot to kill.

It had been a miracle to discover the man he'd pulled from his pool of available subjects to take care of his problem with Lyle had had extensive experience in weapons training and marksmanship in the military. The man had taken the rifle he'd been handed into hands that looked very much used to handling such objects. He'd even checked if there was a cartridge in the chamber and then made sure the safety was on without needing to be told where such things were or how they worked.

"You seem familiar with this," Cox had commented warily.

"M-16 semi-automatic," the man stated in a bland and uninflected voice that carried only a hint of a Southern accent. "I've seen and used my share."

"When?"

"I did some Special Forces work in Nicaragua and El Salvador back when," the man replied without a single blink or flinch. "I was top sharpshooter in my unit."

"Good – then you shouldn't have any trouble with the test we're going to have you take," Cox had replied then, mentally rubbing his hands together in glee at his immense good fortune. The final conditioning that was the coup de grace to the Hydra process wouldn't take more than twelve hours to cement into place in the compliant mind – and it would be the final nail in Lyle's coffin. He'd worked long through the night after Lyle's call to prepare his secret weapon, not sleeping until he was able to escort the man to the front lobby of the Centre and turn him loose. He'd even been snickering mentally as he walked a man with a rifle in a briefcase out from under the noses of the federal agents.

But now his task was a simple one of survival – Cox did NOT want to get caught down here with imprisoned men and boxes of research materials that would implicate him deeply in something that traditional law enforcement would view very dimly. For one thing, his status in the United States was still not something that would tolerate very close scrutiny – and the very last thing he wanted to happen was to be deported back to South Africa. He had no valid passport – neither the Centre nor the Triumvirate had ever bothered with such trivial nonsense – and his only identification was his South African driver's license. That would be enough to lead the authorities to New London – and to incidents and victims he'd hoped would be long forgotten.

He'd have to bide his time – and stay hidden as best he could – until this invasion was over. Then, perhaps, he could slip back up the narrow ladder to the more populated sublevels and make his way to the surface and freedom.

Strange that this underground life he'd been leading and enjoying for the past few years could become a prison.

oOoOo

Hank walked down the corridor of the hospital heading for the surgical unit as if driven, ignoring the smiling faces and then surprised dismay of the many friends he was passing without stopping to chat. He HAD to find the woman – the one with the dark hair who was his target – and he had to eliminate her once and for all. If she had people around her, they would become his targets too.

The surgical unit was on the second floor toward the back of the huge building. Once more he was met by a smiling face when the nurse in charge of the floor recognized him from his days as a medical intern. "Doctor Kellogg!" she exclaimed in delight. "Long time no see! Decided to quit slumming as a shrink and come back to the real world of medicine?"

"I'm looking for a gunshot patient," Hank declared in a voice almost devoid of expression or tone. "Dark hair, about thirty – would have been admitted sometime this morning, early."

The nurse was already shaking her head. "I haven't seen a gunshot patient of that description come through here – and certainly not in the last twelve to fifteen hours." She studied his face carefully. "Are you SURE she was admitted here at Mercy?"

Hank nodded. "Certain."

Dolores Rodriguez shrugged and threw her hands wide. "Sorry I can't help you. There's nobody served by this station like that."

Hank closed his eyes. He didn't need to keep hitting one dead end after another. "You're certain?"

"I'm as certain as I am about my own name, Doctor Kellogg." Dolores was beginning to become concerned. This man in front of her was acting in no way like the fun-loving Hank Kellogg she'd known for the past two years. "Is this woman someone you know?"

Hank was caught short by the question, and it took his mind a moment to fabricate a reasonable response. "Yes. I got a call that told me my friend had been brought here – and I rushed right over…"

"Well…" she nodded, finally feeling as if she could be helpful. If it was a friend he was looking for – especially a close personal friend – maybe that would explain his attitude of almost shock and disorientation. "…anyone admitted to Mercy for gunshot wounds would have to go through the Emergency Room. You know that as well as I do. Have you asked down there yet?"

The Emergency Room! Yes, of course! "Actually, I haven't. I'll do that right now." Hank turned about and headed straight for the elevator.

Eyes narrowed, the nurse reached for the telephone and dialed another extension without even pausing to think about it. "Marcia?" she asked as soon as the call was picked up. "Yeah, it's me, Dolores. You know that doctor that Cindy's been drooling over – the shrink resident Kellogg? Well he was just in here – and there's something fishy going on with him…"

oOoOo

Lyle was fuming.

He'd been kept in a small interrogation room for hours, waiting for a Centre lawyer who had been three hours late in showing up. Both the New York Police Department and the FBI had had an officer in the room asking him questions – questions he either couldn't or didn't dare answer honestly if at all. He was astounded to discover that his picture had been pulled out of a photo line-up by more than one witness to his trek through the homeless population – and even more astounded at the high level attention his case seemed to be drawing.

In the end, however, he'd been charged with kidnapping and transporting his victims across state lines, fingerprinted, and photographed like a common criminal. To make matters even worse, he'd then been thrown, pending transport to a federal holding facility, into a cell with a drunk, two male prostitutes and a very dangerous animal-like creature that wore long and shaggy black hair and feral eyes with his broken and sharp-looking teeth.

His plans – his backup strategy – had blown up in his face. During his investigation, a sketch of Willy Grant had been shown him – with the promise that an all-out effort was going into the apprehension of his "accomplice" during the top-to-bottom search of the Centre facility. Only the knowledge that Cox and his precious research and subject were safely hidden on a sublevel that only those with the highest level of security clearance knew about was keeping him from true desperation.

"OK, Parker, your ride's here." The police officer in charge of the cell block was rattling keys and opening the barred door. "On your feet."

It happened all too quickly. The animal that had been lurking in the far corner of the cell took one look at the officer with the keys and exploded into a violent rage that had the barred door to the cell clanging back against the bars. The officer went down with a shout of alarm – but Lyle didn't wait.

The keys had dropped from the officer's startled hand in the sudden and unexpected attack, and Lyle snagged them from the linoleum as he skidded past where the animal with the long hair and sharp teeth was snarling and clawing and biting the officer on the ground. Lyle knew he had only a very short time before more officers would be coming on the run – and that one of the many keys on the ring he possessed was his miracle road to freedom.

His good luck held – and the first key he tried slipped into the lock and turned in the steel door. Lyle pulled the key from the door, dropped it on the floor and made sure the steel door was closed securely after himself before attempting to walk nonchalantly down the hall. He was still dressed in his dress trousers and fine white shirt – evidently his change into prisoner garb was to have waited until his arrival at the federal facility – so no one seemed to give him a second look as he forced himself to walk slowly and patiently.

Lyle's heart was in his mouth – and his breath wanted to come in short and panicked pants – but he restrained himself and forced his face into a mask of blandness to blend in. He wanted no reason to call the attention of the plain-clothed officers surrounding him, and he forced himself to a bored and placid pace and expression until he'd worked his way down a set of stairs and finally out the front door of the police station.

A quick glance up and down the street, and he was off at a slow trot. His luck had held once more, Lyle congratulated himself. Now all he had to do was find a way to get back into a Triumvirate-controlled environment. He could blame all of this on his sister!

If she were dead, that is. Dead men – or women – had a harder time defending their reputation.

oOoOo

Booger narrowed his eyes and watched carefully as his target jogged away from the building into which he'd been taken. His mentor had made arrangements for him to be left here once he was outside the… outside where he'd been. Funny that he couldn't think of the name of the place where he'd been for the last… how long?

He shook himself – all of those things didn't matter at all. What mattered most was that here he could watch for all comings and goings, with explicit orders that when Lyle exited the building, he was to be terminated – with prejudice. Now here his target was, making as inconspicuous a spectacle of himself in the process of departing the area with all due haste.

But this was a task that Booger had done all too many times in the past – searching out designated military targets and neutralizing them before they could become a danger to his unit. What's more, it was his place to decide who lives and who dies – and frankly, he had no reason to want the dark-haired target to live for any longer than it was going to take to run him to ground.

Booger straightened and began walking in the same direction that Lyle had trotted, his eyes keeping careful track of the slightly bobbing head that was his target. It wouldn't do to lose him now. It had been a long day and an even longer night – and he wanted to rest.

First things first, however…

oOoOo

Gabe Watson patted his fellow agent on the arm in a silent order to "continue on" and then walked a short distance away to answer his cell phone. "Watson here," he stated and then listened with an increasingly incredulous and frustrated face. "You mean to tell me that…" he began and then sputtered. "What kind of search have they…"

He listened again and found reason to nod from time to time at the report from the equally frustrated FBI agent in New York City. "Keep me posted," Watson told him finally, when the details of a complete fiasco of a prisoner transfer had been related. "I want that man in custody as soon as possible. You have no idea what we've found…"

He disconnected and shoved the cell phone into his pocket as he watched the fourth man who had been found locked in a five foot by ten foot cement block cell be led to the vertical ladder that was the access to the hidden sublevel. There were eight of these men, all of them docile and slightly dazed – none of them seeming too entirely anxious to be released from their subterranean prison cells back into the larger world. Not one of these men had a spot of identification on them – all were clean, shaven, well-groomed and quite photogenic. Watson guessed that in the state they were in at the moment, it would be very difficult for shelter managers to help them pinpoint a formerly unwashed vagrant tenant with anything approaching a positive identification.

"What is it?" Okui asked, seeing the slightly tighter expression on his superior's face.

"Parker got away," Watson related brusquely.

The ebony eyes widened. "Got away!" Okui breathed. "How?"

"The NYPD threw him into the holding tank for when our officers came for him," Watson explained with growing disgust. "I guess there was a fellow in the holding cell with him that became violent when Parker's name was called. The officer there at the time will recover from the bites on his face and hands – but Parker darted out of the cell, grabbed the keys and managed to just…" His face twisted in a grimace. "…walk out."

"Oh, for God's sake!"

Watson ran his hand over his balding head and sighed. From every indication, the Parker fellow could be indicted on a number of counts substantiated by the documentation that had been found locked in a burned-out laboratory. The agent who had done a preliminary review of the documents on the top of the stack said that he'd seen memos signed by a Lyle Parker – although the significance of a request to move one of the subjects to "final test phase" was yet to be determined.

The cell phone in his pocket chirped again.

"We found the other suspect," came a triumphant voice on the other end. "Caught him trying to hide in a group of cleared employees leaving the place."

"On my way – I want to talk to him first," Watson barked and then snapped the phone shut. "Keep digging," he ordered Okui. "Don't leave any stone unturned on this floor."

"I won't," Okui promised easily. The things he'd seen on this ungodly floor far below the surface of the earth would haunt him for days, he was certain. There was no way that he'd leave this place until he knew he'd unearthed ALL the horrors it had to offer.

oOoOo

Hank looked around the Emergency Room until his eyes landed on the tall, thin man with the stethoscope wrapped around his neck and wearing surgical blues. "Excuse me," he said, stepping far enough into the medical ward to catch the man's attention and draw him like a worried bee, "but I'm looking for a woman admitted with a gunshot wound…"

"There's nobody with that kind of injury in here, sir," the doctor – whose nametag read Dr. Stephan Lindel – replied immediately. "I'm going to have to ask you…"

"Please…" Hank thanked his lucky stars that this man hadn't been on surgical rotation yet so that their paths would have crossed. "I know that a woman who is a very good friend of mine was admitted here earlier this morning with a gunshot wound. I just want to know if she's ok…" He made a show of thinking. "Don't I know you? I'm on the current rotation of psychiatric residents – haven't I seen you…"

That threw the ER doctor's protective attitude for a loop. "Of course… Doctor…" he drew out, obviously searching his memory for a name to go with a face he'd never seen before.

"Kellogg – Hank Kellogg," Hank supplied quickly.

"Since it's you…" Lindel stepped closer. "There WAS a woman admitted earlier today – had already had some pretty damned impressive on-site emergency surgery to repair damage to the artery. She came in with another doctor from Mercy – Jarod Russell?"

"That's the one!" Hank exclaimed excitedly. "That's my friend! Is she still here?"

"Unless she or one of the other men with her signed her out AMA," Lindel nodded and moved to the nursing station for the ER. "Lemme see – I think I have her paperwork right here…"

oOoOo

There was a knock on the door, and then Maricela Sanchez stuck her head around the corner. "Jarod?" she asked and beckoned to the tall man with a darting hand. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Jarod didn't bother glancing at Sam as he stepped around the big man in the process of getting to his friend. "What's the matter?"

"Outside?" she asked with a tip of the head.

He glanced about the room and then nodded. Sam was as vigilant now as he ever could be – despite his growing fatigue. Sydney had settled back into the relatively comfortable chair next to Miss Parker, leaned his head against the wall, folded his arms over his chest and been snoring very softly for the better part of an hour now. Miss Parker was fast asleep – her color having improved greatly over the course of the evening and night. He glanced up and down the corridor – noting the lack of general public with some relief. "I'll be right back," he told Sam in a soft whisper and saw the sweeper nod slowly in response. Then he closed the door behind him. "What's up?"

"Do you remember your patient Clarisa MacGregor – sixteen year old admitted for attempted suicide?" Maricela asked in an urgent tone.

"I remember her," Jarod replied, leaning against the wall immediately next to the door. "I'm assuming this late-night summons isn't good news?"

Sanchez was shaking her head. "Don't ask me where she got a hold of it, but he found a scalpel – and she's got herself holed up in the restroom refusing to come out until she talks to you."

"You don't need me," Jarod shook his head. "There are several psych residents…"

"No, you didn't hear me," Sanchez insisted. "She says she's going to finish the job properly this time if she doesn't talk to YOU – and right now!"

"Maricela…" Jarod pleaded.

"Look – your friend has two people in there who can defend her if anybody should come in the few moments you're going to be gone, doesn't she?"

Jarod eventually nodded in frustration. "Fine. Where is she – I'll talk to her."

"Right where you left her…" Maricela was already heading down the corridor.

"Let me tell my friends where I'm going," Jarod prevaricated and pushed open the door again. "One of my patients is having a crisis," he explained lamely to Sam, who merely sighed and nodded again. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Jarod's long legs didn't take long to catch up with his petite colleague. "So fill me in on what's happened with her since I left…"

oOoOo

Lyle breathed a sigh of relief as the green of the park closed around him – putting a barrier of sorts between himself and the pair of officers that had been standing on the corner a block away, nibbling on donuts and just talking as they walked their beat. There was no guarantee that they wouldn't stop to question a man in his shirtsleeves heading into the park that late a night – and he needed to find a private place to make a phone call.

He sprinted to the first payphone he could find and thrust his fingers into the coin return, smiling widely when he was able to pull out a quarter on his very first try. He picked up the receiver and began to dial. He'd call the Triumvirate – they'd be able to put him under wraps until the heat had blown over and he could resurface in the Centre again to take his rightful place as Chairman.

And on the other end of the line, a phone began to ring.

oOoOo

Booger assembled the rifle quickly and efficiently from his vantage behind a huge old elm tree, chambered a round and then sighted through the scope. His target's white shirt was as good as a bulls eye – and he already knew how the weapon acted in comparison to what was seen in the scope. He adjusted his aim accordingly.

He decided who lives and dies.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

oOoOo

Hank's hand slid toward his jacket pocket, where the handgun was a heavy weight that thumped against his upper thigh when he walked. The medical floor was two floors up – and he finally had a room number. His job was almost over for now – just a little more and he could finally take out his target and those in the room with her, just as his mentor had ordered him to.

Then he'd have to go back for the mentor – the man who's voice echoed so hypnotically in his mind and repeated the key phrase over and over so that he wouldn't forget. He'd have to see just where it was that they had taken him – it had been the police there in that little town, hadn't it? He would see to the mentor's well-being – and then he'd be able to rest.

"Doctor Kellogg! What a pleasant surprise!"

Hank looked over, startled, at the gushing physician and searched his memory for the face. "Simon," he responded slowly. "Fancy meeting you here," he added when the fellow physician's face lit up at being recognized.

"I thought you were out doing your on-site research with the homeless." Simon Carlisle was a big man who regularly slapped his colleagues on the back hard enough to stagger them – something he did now. "Research finished already?"

Hank wished the confined space of the elevator car would allow him to sidle just a little further away from Carlisle's exuberance. How the man managed to charm the snot out of the little brats that were to be HIS specialty – pediatrics – he'd never managed to figure out. "Not exactly," he hedged. "I needed to take care of a couple of things here that are – were – time-sensitive."

"Time-sensitive, eh?" Carlisle seemed to find the entire idea humorous. "Don't tell me, you have to deactivate a bomb in the nurse's restroom before you lose your research grant…"

"Something like that." Hank was grateful that the elevator had arrived at the floor he wanted. He moved to the front of the car and forced himself to not quite bolt the moment the silver metal had swished to the side on it's track. "See you later, Simon," he managed and then smiled contentedly as the elevator door slid to cover the man's face again.

"Hank!"

Another glad voice – another colleague who couldn't be ignored without setting off the kinds of alarms that he couldn't afford right now.

"Sheila!" He responded with a pasted-on smile.

"Am I glad you showed up! I was thinking I was going to have to badger the Old Man for a phone number to get a hold of you. Do you remember your patient, Sam Frank? Look, I inherited the case management for him when you took your sabbatical…" The blonde beckoned him. "I've read your notes, but his is a complex case – can I ask you a couple of questions?"

Hank stared down the corridor at the closed door almost at the other end. She was in there – he could feel it from here – and from all reports she wouldn't be leaving that room anytime soon. He could feel the draw of the necessary kill in every pore of his body, tempting him to just put a bullet in the brain of this air headed colleague who couldn't shrink her way out of a paper bag if she had a year to do it. But he also knew that if he didn't deal with Sheila's questions, she'd hound his steps and maybe try to stop him – and that if he shot her, security would be descending on him at a run.

The order had been to take out the target and all in the room with her. But he didn't have to add to the number of other victims unnecessarily. He decides who lives and dies, he repeated to himself mentally.

"Sure," he sighed and let Sheila lead him in the direction of a lounge.

Hopefully this wouldn't take TOO much time…

oOoOo

Officer Ken Donaldson stared down at the man on the pavement, a payphone receiver dangling from the apparatus not far from his outstretched hand, and then bent as he saw the eyelids flicker. "Get an ambulance!" he yelled at his partner futilely – knowing full well that from the amount of blood coming from the back of the man's head, the bullet that had pierced the skull between the eyes had already done their job. The man was dead – but the body was taking a moment to figure it out.

"Over here!" His partner, Roy Landsmithe, yelled in return, his gun drawn and trained nervously on the man who stood behind a large oak tree with a rifle dangling impotently from one hand. "Drop it, mister!" he barked sharply.

Booger blinked as if waking up from a deep sleep. "Huh?" he grunted and then looked down at the heavy object he was holding in his hand. The sight of the gun – and all it implied – only confused him more, and he forced his fingers to open so that the weapon could fall into the cushion of grass.

Landsmithe kicked the weapon away from his suspect – as far as he could move it from easy retrieval reach. "On the ground, now!" he barked now, his gun still steady on the face of the now-pale face.

"Easy," Booger tried to soothe as he dropped to his knees in the grass and then lay out on his stomach with arms above his head. "Easy."

"Easy nothing, buddy," Landsmithe snapped as he pulled first one hand and then the other into a controlling grip that was replaced by a thin plastic strap. "You're under arrest for the murder of…" He looked up and over at the sprawled body under the street lamp near the payphone. "…Whoever that poor bastard is over there. You have the right to remain silent…"

He bent with a latex glove in hand to reach for the rifle and almost dropped it. "Gun's still hot," he told his prisoner. "You musta just aced him."

"I decide who lives and dies," Booger recited to himself as he was hauled over to where an unknown man lay sprawled awkwardly in death, not exactly sure why that was important. "I decide who lives or dies."

"Suuuuuuuure you do, buddy," Landsmithe replied caustically, his gaze meeting that of his partner as Donaldson reached for the radio on his shoulder to request back up and a squad car be dispatched to their location. "Suuuuuuure you do…"

oOoOo

"Hey boss, look what we found in a closet in one of them locked labs!"

Watson spun as Okui and Vermel dragged a rather wide-eyed Mr. Cox up to him.

"What's your name?" Watson demanded brusquely.

Cox kept his mouth shut. He'd already shed his wallet with what little identification he did possess into a five-gallon bucket of floor polish that had been opened previously in the janitorial closet he'd been hiding in. The unmitigated bad luck of having been one of the last doors on the sublevel to be searched had meant that he had very little place to go – and high on a rickety shelf hadn't turned out to be a wise decision.

Watson gazed at the man with narrowed eyes. It was late – the top to bottom search of the facility known as the Centre had taken thirty-five agents from three states the better part of twelve long hours to seize almost a U-Haul truck's worth of documents and equipment. At this point in the very long day, he really wasn't in a mood to put up with recalcitrant suspects. "Take him in," he instructed his men with a casual wave. "We'll send his fingerprints and mug shot around and see what kind of info comes back at us."

Vermel took charge of the white-coated man and dragged him toward the vertical ladder that had been found to be the only working access to the sublevel so far. "Climb," he ordered, knowing that there was an agent at the top of those metal rungs more than capable of handling yet another whose part in this whole sordid affair would have to be sorted out later. "Found this one hiding," he yelled up at his counterpart as the white-garbed man finally cleared the access.

"Gotcha," the nameless voice above replied – and from the sounds of it, hauled at the unknown man from the closet with very little gentility. "Move it."

"Is that it?" Okui asked Watson.

Watson sighed heavily. "God, I hope so," he shook his head. "I told you we needed that backup."

"We got our other suspect – and God knows what else we stopped here," Okui reassured his superior. "Let's leave it to the forensic men now to sift through the junk we seized."

"You're right. Watson reached for a rung of the metal ladder and hauled himself back up into the brighter light of the sublevel above.

"Did you hear about the guy who stood off the officers outside one of the offices on the top floor – telling them that his boss had ordered that NOBODY go into the office beyond, including herself, and that any who tried were to be shot on sight?"

Watson sighed again. Just what exactly WAS the Centre. "So what did our people do?"

oOoOo

Hank's footsteps halted in front of the closed door that Lindel had told him had been assigned to the woman he sought. This was it – the moment of truth.

He drew the handgun from his pocket and chambered a round. He decides who lives and dies, he repeated to himself resolutely. He decides who lives and dies.

Jarod saw his friend as he stepped from the elevator and started down the corridor toward Miss Parker's room. Then it registered that Hank had a gun in his hand.

"HANK! STOP!"

Hank blinked as Jarod's voice called to him, disrupting the voice of his mentor in his mind. "No," he told himself firmly aloud. "I decide who lives and dies. I decide!" And he slammed the door open even as he heard the pounding of heavy footsteps drawing closer behind him.

Sam didn't quite get a chance to rise before the gun in the intruder's hand had gone off, piercing the big man's chest and dropping him back into the chair like a sack of potatoes. Sydney came up out of the chair and flung himself between the gunman and Miss Parker, unprepared for the calm look in the man's eye as he simply squeezed off another shot. Sydney too, then, dropped from a chest wound.

"Hank!" Jarod yelled, stepping into the room behind him, a gun he'd hoped he'd never have to use pointed at his best friend. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Don't make me use this…"

"I decide who lives or dies," Hank pronounced carefully as he raised the gun and pointed it at a face that looked eerily like the one he'd shot so many times before for his mentor. It didn't matter that he could hear the pounding of footsteps outside in the corridor as the security men homed in on the sounds of yelling. This was it – his job was nearly done.

And the sound of gunshots rang out down the corridor.


	12. Aftermath

Chapter 12 – Aftermath

Late Sunday afternoon

Miss Parker struggled against the effects of the drug that the doctor had insisted on injecting into her IV, blinking several times to try to clear her vision. She wasn't dreaming – she was in another hospital room entirely, one with another woman lying very still to her left. Why was she here and where was…

Oh.

She closed her eyes again and tried to shut out the horrific sight of Sam's eye staring sightlessly in her direction from where he'd collapsed back into the chair. She'd seen death before, and the look in Sam's eyes was just like the look that had been in Thomas' eyes when she'd found him sprawled on the front porch in a pool of blood from a head wound – filled with a faint echo of surprise. Only Sam hadn't been lying in a pool of blood – the bullet hole in the center of his chest had bled only a very little before a nurse had checked his pulse and thrown a sheet over him, removing him entirely from view.

If there had been blood, it had been Sydney's – in a wide stain on her bed. Sydney had fallen across her legs – his weight landing hard and painfully on her – and when the trauma team had removed him, there had been a fair-sized pool of blood from where he'd lain. He, unlike Sam, had somehow survived the bullet – at least, he'd been alive when they'd wheeled him away on a gurney headed for emergency surgery. Miss Parker decided that the next time she was aware enough to know when a nurse was in the room with her, she'd demand a report on his condition. But if he died…

No. She didn't want to go there.

She opened her eyes again and once more tried to clear the fuzziness from both her vision and brain in order to check to see if Jarod was still with her – only to find Broots sitting in a chair at the foot of her bed with his chin on his chest dozing. The sight was both disconcerting and a comfort – for if Broots were here without Debbie, then it must once more be safe; but if Jarod were gone, she'd never get all of the answers she needed. She hoped that it hadn't been a part of the nightmare when the former Pretender had called out to her aspiring murderer as if to somebody he knew well. The implications were just too complicated to think through at the moment.

"Miss Parker?" Broots sat up straighter, blinking himself against his sleepiness. "You're awake?"

"What does it look like?" she growled at him with no real bite in her voice. "Tell me."

The computer tech sat forward and rubbed curled fingers into his eyes like a child. "Tell you what?"

"How's Sydney?" First things first, after all.

Broots sighed. "In Intensive Care," he reported sadly. "I heard Jarod talking to one of the surgeons – Sydney tried to die on them a couple of times while on the table. The doctor said it was still too early to tell…"

Miss Parker swallowed hard. "And Sam?" Maybe, just maybe, she'd been wrong…

Broots shook his head slowly. "He didn't make it." He saw the fleeting emotions flash across her face before the cold façade could crash into place. "I'm sorry, Miss Parker."

"Where's Jarod?" she asked, once more closing her eyes and resting back again her pillows, as if the soft and crisply clean smell could protect her from the ugly reality of Sam's death and Sydney's near-death that awaited her.

"The police took him away to be questioned – he shot the guy who was hunting you in the shoulder, from what I understand. If it hadn't been for him…"

Miss Parker nodded reluctantly. "I get the message, Broots. Do we know who was trying to kill me?"

"It was the friend Jarod was trying to find – the one he suspected the Centre caught when it went looking for the homeless for that Hydra project." Broots shook his head again, this time in disbelief. "You shoulda heard him, Miss Parker, sounding more like a madman than the doctor Jarod said he was – shouting about how he decided who lives and dies…"

Miss Parker's eyes blinked open, and she stared at her associate in consternation and shock. Those had been the words that had been instilled in Jarod's brother, Kyle, by Raines while being trained as a sociopath and assassin – words she'd thought she'd never hear again. "How did Jarod take it?"

"He took it hard, Miss Parker. His friend didn't seem to even know him there at the end."

"How long ago did he leave with the police?"

"A long time," Broots answered, wiping his hands on his trouser legs nervously. "You've been out for like the whole day now…"

Oh how she just wanted to burrow into her pillow and not face all of this – to retreat back into the drug-induced lethargy where nothing and nobody mattered. But she didn't have that option. "All right," she stated as firmly as she could as she struggled once more to bring her mind back to clarity and efficiency. "I want you to call the Centre and get a sweeper team assigned to security here – I don't want either Sydney or myself left unguarded. Call my assistant and have her make sure everybody who needs to know knows where I am." Her grey eyes landed on him. "And then go get me some coffee, a report on Sydney's condition, and a doctor – in that precise order."

Broots rose, looking uncertain. "A… a doctor, Miss Parker?"

"If Jarod did his job right, Lyle is cooling his heels in jail, Broots – and we've got a Triumvirate representative cooling his heels in Blue Cove, supposedly there to see a smooth transfer of authority from Raines to whoever succeeds him. I can't waste time being tied down here in New York – I need to either be released to the Centre Renewal Wing or sign myself out. Either that, or we all become a wholly-owned subsidiary of an African consortium." The expression turned to a glare. "Move it, Shaggy."

Broots didn't know whether to be exasperated or exhilarated that his boss was sounding like her tough-as-nails self again. "Yes, ma'am," he nodded obediently and set forth to find the nearest coffeepot.

oOoOo

Jarod's tired eyes sought and found Maricela Sanchez where she was sitting slumped and dozing in a straight chair against the wall of the precinct lobby. It was hard to believe that she'd come over after her shift to wait for the police to be finished with him – but then again, maybe it wasn't. "'Chela," he shook her shoulder gently to rouse her, calling her by the nickname she'd worn with him since Hank had told him what her sister called her, "C'mon. It's time to go."

The dark eyes slowly opened and blinked a few times to clear away the remains of sleep. "They're finally done with you?"

Jarod sighed and nodded. "For now. One dead body and one seriously injured man and another patient in imminent danger of lethal attack otherwise made my actions into something considerably less than assault and battery – so I wasn't charged with anything. My gun's…"

"I didn't even know you had a gun," Maricela stated accusingly as she took a firm grasp on her purse and rose to her feet. "What the hell did you have a gun for in the hos…"

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me," Jarod interrupted her in his turn. "As it is, the police are keeping it pending the ballistics reports from the bullets taken from Sam and Sydney and Hank…"

"That's another thing – why'd you have to SHOOT him, for God's sake…"

"Chela." Jarod put his hand on her elbow as they pushed through the doors and out onto the stoop of the police precinct building. "He was going to kill your patient. He'd already shot her once."

"You don't know that…" she snapped at him.

"It will be confirmed soon enough," Jarod snapped back. "They found a rifle in the car he'd been driving – ballistics has that too now." He sighed again. "Look, can we not fight? It's been a long day…"

"You owe me the truth," Maricela demanded, pulling her elbow from his grasp and heading down the steps quickly. "You PROMISED me the truth when it was all over – and you owe it to me to be there and tell Mrs. Kellogg what the hell happened to her son. You were supposed to find him and make sure he was all right – not put a bullet in his shoulder and land him in the prison ward of Mercy."

"Hank's actions were what landed him in the prison ward," Jarod reminded her, hastening to catch up with his colleague. "And I'll come with you to Kellogg's to talk to Mrs. Kellogg. Just…" He caught at her elbow again. "Look – can we save the attitude until we can have some time alone for me to tell you the whole story? This is hard enough on the both of us without needing to make it worse."

"He was your friend," Maricela continued as if Jarod hadn't said a word. "And you just pulled the trigger…" She unlocked the passenger door of her little imported sedan and then slipped away from Jarod to go around to the driver's side and unlock that door as he folded his frame to fit into the compact space.

"And he was killing people in cold blood. What did you want me to do, Chela – stand there and watch him kill another one?"

Maricela stared at him for a long time before looking away and putting the key in the ignition. "No," she sighed heavily. "It's just…"

"It's just it was a bad situation, no matter what," Jarod finished for her. "And I just spent the better part of an entire day telling the same story over and over for everyone who felt they had a need to hear it first-hand. Look, I'm tired, and I have a headache. I have one friend who's in the hospital with a gunshot wound; the man who raised me in the hospital with a gunshot wound – and I don't even know whether he's dead or alive; and my best friend – whom I had to shoot myself – in jail for murder and assault. And now I get to go over to my best friend's mother's house and explain to her not only why her son is in jail, but why I shot him myself. All in all, I've had it pretty shitty too lately – so can you lighten up?" His voice had gotten harder and harsher as he'd unloaded – and Maricela was staring at him by the time he was finished.

"I'm taking you home," she announced as she put the car in gear. "You can at least get a shower and shave before we go to Kellogg's." Jarod had a point – and he deserved at least a few minutes to collect his thoughts before the agony of talking to Hank's mom.

No matter how angry she was at him – or how confused things had become.

Jarod just turned his head and looked out the window in a direction away from her. Things had gone so horribly, terribly wrong – and all his supposed genius had been powerless to stop it after all.

Would the day ever end?

oOoOo

"Can I see him?" Broots asked the ICU nurse plaintively.

"He's still unconscious," the nurse related to him sympathetically. She'd heard about the shooting that had landed the aging man in her ward – this young man must be a relative or very close friend. "I can let you in for ten minutes – that's all." She pointed. "Third bed from the end on the right."

Broots walked down the center of the room, counting off the beds on his right until he came to the foot of the indicated bed. He'd done his best to prepare himself – but the sight was still a shock.

Sydney was wired or otherwise plugged into just about every possible machine imaginable – he was receiving blood from one plastic bag into one hand and had three clear liquids running together into the other hand. A tube ran from his nose, and another dangled out from beneath the bed-clothing near Sydney's hips. A monitor just overhead gave a steady beep and displayed a continuing line that jumped and spiked regularly with every heartbeat. Broots could read some of the other numbers on yet another machine displaying blood pressure and respiration rates. The blankets on the bed were pulled high enough up Sydney's chest that Broots couldn't see anything of any bandages from the surgery – but the pallor on his colleague's face was enough to tell him of the serious nature of the injuries.

Miss Parker didn't need to see this, Broots decided quickly. He'd do his damnedest to make sure that she didn't see the old psychiatrist until he was at least awake and aware again. Broots reached out and very carefully touched one of the hands that lay so still on top of the blanket. "Hang in there, Sydney," he said softly, and then walked back to the nurse's station. "He has a very good friend who's also here in the hospital that would like a report of his condition," he told her in a frank tone. "What I can tell her?"

"You can tell her that he's currently listed in serious but stable condition," the nurse replied gently. "Anything beyond that can only be told to next of kin."

Broots nodded. He understood rules – and the need to protect privacy. After all, he worked for an organization that was a large reason that the new privacy laws had been written. These new laws were to keep the Centre and others like it from accessing information about people without their knowledge or permission.

"Thank you." He pushed through the swinging doors of the Intensive Care Unit, knowing that he had only one task left to accomplish – although it would be the hardest of the lot. Somehow he had to discover who Miss Parker's doctor was and contact that person in hopes of convincing them to come to see her. He didn't agree that she should be released yet – her face was entirely too pale and she moved with great difficulty and pain – but knew better than to tell HER that.

Ah well. At least he could go back and tell her he'd seen Sydney – maybe knowing that her old friend had made it through the day would make her feel a little better.

oOoOo

Sunday evening

It had been a long time since Jarod had felt quite as beaten down as he did putting the key into his apartment doorway and letting himself in. With a start he glanced around, expecting to see Debbie Broots pop out of a room at the sound of someone coming in – but there was only a note on the kitchen table that explained that Debbie had been sent along to visit with distant cousins on the other side of town and not to worry. He dropped his jacket over the back of a chair and ran his fingers through his short hair – pondering his next move.

Jarod eventually slouched over to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of beer from the depths – then twisted the top off and carried it back to the comfortable couch. At last he could relax, or at least stop dreading the next phase of the crisis – although it promised to be a long night with little sleep otherwise. The nightmares would simply be too close to the surface – the horrors too fresh in his mind – to easily dismiss.

Hank's mother had been understandably upset – both at the very thought of her son having turned into a cold-blooded killer as well as at the idea that Jarod had been forced to shoot him to prevent him from killing again. Unexpectedly, Maricela had defended his actions to the older woman – asking her the same question that Jarod had asked her only an hour or so earlier about whether she'd expected him to stand by and watch Hank pull the trigger on an unarmed woman. Mrs. Kellogg had acquiesced – but soon thereafter quietly invited the two of them to leave her. It didn't take a genius, or even a sub-par Pretender to know that he'd probably never set foot in the Kellogg house again.

On the way home, he'd finally told Maricela the entire story – from his abduction by the Centre to his suspicions about Lyle and Willy, and the cold shiver he'd gotten from hearing Hank's "I decide who lives or dies." She'd listened quietly and attentively, asking a few questions only about those parts of his story that confused her – hell, they would confuse just about anybody. Whether or not she believed him at this point, however, didn't really matter – he'd put the truth where it needed to be. What the consequences would be to their friendship – if there were to be any consequences, that is – would be up to Maricela now. Only time would tell.

The cell phone in the pocket of his jacket began to chirp, and Jarod took a quick gulp of beer before rising and fetching the device from the back of a kitchen chair. "Hello?"

"Jarod, honey – it's Mom."

Jarod carried the phone with him back to the couch and sprawled. "Mom," he answered with more need than he'd ever given her. "Is everything all right?"

"I heard the news – something about an FBI raid on the Centre? What's going on – and are you involved?" Margaret's voice was filled with a combination of anger, worry and frustration. "They don't know where you are, do they?"

"Miss Parker does," he answered with a sigh and took another long gulp of the acrid brew. "Broots does."

"Jarod!"

"But they're not after me, if that's what you're worried about. Miss Parker is in the hospital – and Broots and his daughter were just here last night, keeping safe from an assassin."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "What about Sydney?" she asked cautiously. "Isn't he the one you've stayed in contact with?"

"I didn't stay in contact with any of them, Mom," he protested. "But when…" He closed his eyes. No – he really did NOT want to have to go through the entire saga another time that day. "Look – suffice it to say that I called Sydney for help – and it ended up that Miss Parker needed my help. She's hurt, Sydney's badly hurt – and I just spent the whole day with the police."

There was another pause. "Do you need your father and I to come?"

"No…" The answer was another sigh. "I just need a good night's sleep. It's been a VERY long day."

"Maybe you should think of taking a few days off – come to the farm and get away from the city…" she suggested with a note of hope. "JD, Emily and Ethan are all coming down next Friday to spend the weekend – maybe you want to come along, make it an impromptu family reunion?"

Jarod nodded at the empty space in front of him. "Maybe I do," he admitted tiredly. "I'll be in touch, Mom – honest. Right now, though, I just want to sleep the clock around."

"Then I'll let you get your rest." Margaret sighed this time. "Call when you know when you can be here for a few days – just to relax and get away from everything."

"I will," Jarod promised. "And thanks for calling, Mom."

"I love you, Jarod."

"I love you too, Mom. Bye."

Jarod disconnected the call and then stared at the little device in his hand for a long moment. Finally he dialed a number from memory and then held the phone to his ear again. "Mercy General Hospital," came the voice on the other end of the line.

"Give my the Intensive Care nurses' station," Jarod directed in a voice that sounded strong and confident.

"ICU," the nurses' station answered a few moments later.

"I'm calling on the condition of Doctor Sydney Green…"

"I'm sorry, sir – you are…?"

"I'm Doctor Jarod Russell, on the staff there at Mercy. Doctor Green is a close friend…"

"I'm sorry sir, but I can only give out information on Doctor Green's condition to those listed on his chart as having permission…"

Jarod sighed. The run-around meant that Sydney was still in ICU. He'd have to stop by in the morning to see him.

"Thanks anyway." He quickly disconnected the call and dialed the switchboard operator again. "May I have Miss Melissa Parker's room?" he asked this time.

There was a pause. "There is no Melissa Parker currently admitted," the operator answered eventually. "Are you sure you have the correct name?"

"Thank you," Jarod answered and again disconnected the call. Evidently Miss Parker was awake and aware enough to do just as he'd expected of her – leave the hospital against medical advice. No doubt she was on her way back to Blue Cove – although he'd not expected her to leave Sydney behind. She was usually loyal to her associates – especially those she'd known her entire life.

There was nothing to do but finish his beer and try to get some sleep. Jarod tipped the bottle to his lips and drained it in one long draught, then left it on the coffee table while he rose slowly to his feet and headed off toward the bedroom.

oOoOo

Broots hovered as the white-garbed medical personnel from the Renewal Wing rushed across the tarmac with a wheelchair ready for Miss Parker's deplaning. Turning, he took in the pallor on her face that had only worsened during the one hour flight. "Renewal is here for you, Miss Parker," he announced and then put his hand out to his daughter. "Come on, sweetheart – it's time to let the nurses help her now."

Debbie slowly moved to her father's side and watched anxiously as two nurses came up the narrow steps into the plane to begin bustling and hovering over Miss Parker. Her one and only woman friend, Debbie had taken to caring for the ailing Parker during the trip, trying to talk small talk to her to keep her distracted from the lack of pain medication for her shoulder. Now, it seemed, Miss Parker would get what she needed.

The orderly was about to manhandle the wheelchair down the steep steps when a gesture from the passenger stayed him. Miss Parker turned and gestured to Broots. "I'm going to need my cell phone from the house – and a change of clothing for Tuesday. Debbie can help you with the clothes. And I'm going to want a legal document giving me the right to information about Sydney's condition on its way to Mercy General by noon tomorrow – I'll be damned if I'm going to be stonewalled on that."

"Yes, Miss Parker…"

"Ma'am," the orderly spoke up apologetically, "the doctors really need to get you downstairs and resting more comfortably. Can't some of this wait…"

Miss Parker merely ignored him. "Have my secretary call Mr. Adin in the morning, letting him know that I'm back in the Centre and taking charge of operations. Then see if you can't locate that low-down brother of mine – hopefully in jail somewhere in New York. I need to know where all the players are on Tuesday morning…"

"Yes, Miss Parker," Broots nodded, "but you need to rest now. I'll get right on this and more – but you need to get some pain medication and some decent rest."

"I don't rest in hospital beds," she snapped. "Besides, I've got too much to do…"

Broots exchanged a knowing glance with the orderly. She may think she had too much to do, but the doctors in the Renewal Wing would make sure she got the rest and relief from pain that she needed more. "I'll see you in the morning," he told her with an inexplicably brave hand on her shoulder. He looked up at the sweeper who had been Miss Parker's shadow all day. "I'll need a ride to Miss Parker's…"

Ken waved another sweeper over and gave a quick order into the man's ear. "Right this way, Mr. Broots," the new sweeper gestured at a large and comfortable black Centre sedan. "I'll take you wherever you need to go."

"C'mon Sweetpea," Broots put his arm about his daughter. "First to Miss Parker's, and then to my home, please," he stated to the sweeper. "And I'll need a ride to the Centre in the morning…"

"I'll see to it, sir," the sweeper told him with efficient deference. "Don't you worry."

Broots climbed into the back seat of the large and luxurious car with a sigh of relief. Never before had he been so glad to be in the hands of Centre personnel!

"Daddy, will she be ok?" Debbie asked, watching the hovering team of white-garbed people whisk Miss Parker into a waiting ambulance quicker than she'd ever seen people move before.

"I think so," Broots breathed out as he relaxed against the plush seating. "Just maybe."

oOoOo

Monday morning

Hank stared at the wall next to his hospital bed blankly, his mind caught in the rote repetition of what had become his mantra, and didn't see Jarod flash his hospital identification at the officer in charge as he stepped into the room. I decide who lives and dies, he heard over and over again in the rich tones of his mentor, I decide who lives and dies.

"Hank?" Jarod asked quietly, moving to the side of the bed and trying to not notice the handcuffs that connected the wounded man to the side railing on the bed. "Hank, it's me – Jarod…"

The Hank who turned to look at Jarod was a stranger. There wasn't the slightest flicker of recognition in the depths of those previously expressive hazel eyes, which blinked twice while looking at Jarod and then calmly turned back to the study of the wall. I decide who lives and dies.

"Hello." Doctor Rickman walked briskly into the room past the officer and took in the visitor. "I'm Peter Rickman – Mr. Kellogg's psychiatrist."

"Jarod Russell," Jarod offered along with a firm handshake. "Hank and I were psychiatric residents here at Mercy together. I thought…"

Rickman shook his head. "Mr. Kellogg – Hank, you say? – has been unresponsive to everyone around him and uncommunicative."

"I'm not surprised," Jarod commented quietly, almost to himself. Hank was another victim of the Centre – and the old hatred rose easily. Another life ruined by Raines and Lyle and… No, Parker had had nothing to do with this.

"Oh?" Rickman was surprised. "What do you know about this case?"

Jarod sighed. It had been a long night – one in which he'd only managed to sleep but a couple of hours, spending the rest of his waking moments in front of his laptop studying the files describing the Hydra's Teeth process in detail. "My friend has been put through a hybridized brainwashing technique," he began slowly, "that involved a combination of chemical memory tampering along with traditional sleep deprivation and forced reprogramming through auditory and visual over-stimulation. He was programmed to kill," he added grimly, "and given no reason other than the fact that he was the one who decided who deserved to live…"

"I decide who lives and dies…" Hank murmured as if to echo Jarod's words.

Rickman quickly opened the chart he'd been holding and began to take notes. "Chemical memory tampering?" he asked, looking up with a measure of skepticism. "Is such a thing possible?"

"Given the levels of the drugs used, and the mixture and timing of the individual doses over time, yes." Jarod nodded slowly. "It was an experimental technique that apparently met and exceeded the designer's intent."

"But programmed to kill?" Rickman gazed at Jarod with wide eyes. "For God's sake – why?"

Jarod's dark chocolate eyes flickered with a depth of anger Rickman had rarely seen before in sane and rational men. "Because they could," the former Pretender replied grimly. "And because they thought disposable assassins could bring in substantial profit."

Rickman turned and stared at Hank, who was muttering under his breath something that sounded like a repeating phrase. "I've handled psychiatric breaks before, but nothing like THIS! I'm out of my league here…" He turned back to Jarod. "Can the process be reversed?"

"I don't know," Jarod admitted. He'd spent several hours staring at the chemical constructs of the drugs that had been used, digging through his encyclopedic memory for potential counteragents and additional chemicals that could be used to reverse what had been done – mostly to no avail. What Cox had designed had been pure genius – with the potential to be of great psychiatric assistance in stubborn cases – but in Hank, used to a completely destructive purpose that might not respond to treatment. "I have a few ideas, but…"

"Because at the moment, all I can do is turn in a report that states that the patient is in no way mentally capable of assisting in his own defense," Rickman explained in a voice lowered. "This man is facing the death penalty – but from what I see and hear right now, he's insane."

"It isn't fair," Jarod said quietly, more to himself than to the other doctor in the room. "He was so bright – so funny – so committed to dedicating his life to counseling the less fortunate who might be caught in a cycle of poverty and abuse. He had such a great future…"

"Doctor Russell, I could petition the courts to have your name added to his case management staff – IF you think you could help him," Rickman offered slowly. "You and I both know he belongs in an institution – but if he's as intelligent as you say, it would be nice to see just how far we could come in bringing that personality back."

Jarod shook his head. "I don't know," he hedged. "That might be a worse punishment than just sticking a needle in his arm. Hank despised senseless violence – I hate to think of what he would feel when he found out…"

"Would you be willing?" Rickman pressed.

Jarod turned and gazed at his friend – a man who was but a shadow of the man he knew – and knew his answer. "I'll do what I can," he promised, putting forth his hand again. "You take care of the paperwork, I'll start with the research."

"I decide who lives and dies," Hank announced in a suddenly clear and coherent voice. "I decide." He looked down and saw for what seemed to be the first time that his wrist was connected by a strong chain to the side of the bed – and he rattled the chain, testing its strength. "I decide," he protested softly.

"Something tells me we'll both need a great deal of luck," Rickman commented, adding another note and then closing the chart.

"A miracle," Jarod rejoined, thoroughly daunted by the self-appointed task ahead of him.

oOoOo

"I need to see her – I need to see Miss Parker," Mr. Adin was nearly shouting at the implacable medical assistant standing in his way. Beyond, through the doors of the Centre's Renewal Wing, he knew that the object of his search was hiding behind billowing curtains and white-jacketed muscle. "It's of urgent importance…"

"Stan." A sweeper stepped out and touched the assistant on the shoulder. "She says to let him in."

"The doctors gave strict orders…"

"I never did listen to doctors," came an angry voice from within. "Now let the man through."

Mr. Adin folded his face in satisfaction as both men reluctantly moved out of his way. "Miss Parker…"

"In here," the angry voice guided him through several sets of billowing curtains until he found himself in an enclosed space where a pale woman lay in a hospital bed, one arm in a sling. "If I were on death's doorstep, I would have heard you," she remarked caustically. "Now, what is so urgent that you feel it necessary to bully my people?"

"I was informed that you were deceased," the tall African began haughtily.

"A report that you should by now realize was premature," Miss Parker responded coldly. "It seems my brother was trying to make sure that the mantle of authority landed on him – and was willing to go to any lengths to accomplish that."

"Your brother has been unavailable for comment for the past day or so," Mr. Adin countered in an equally cold voice. "It has been very disconcerting to see this organization without a firm hand on the wheel."

"Then you'll be happy to know that that situation ends now," Miss Parker announced in a cold and very deliberate tone. "My people have had news that makes that very clear." She used her free hand and picked up a paper – a copy of a very short article in the New York Times – and handed it to him.

"Man Killed" read the headline in bold but small print – and the next short paragraph identified the victim as Lyle Parker, a fugitive from the New York Police Department. Mr. Adin looked up in shock. "This is real?"

"You can call the NYPD and verify, if you don't trust the New York Times," Miss Parker would have shrugged if it wouldn't have hurt too much. "But the fact of the matter is that with Lyle definitely dead, the question of who will run the Centre is a moot one."

Adin's eyes glittered. "You are not considered suitable," he sneered.

"Suitable or not, I am the only living Parker capable of handling the job," she sneered back, "and I've been researching the terms of the collaboration between our two organization. It seems that your continued participation is dependent upon a Parker being in the Chairman's seat." She smiled coldly and with great satisfaction. "You have no choice but to support my claim."

"There is Chairman Raines' recommendation…"

"Which is moot," Miss Parker repeated as if to a recalcitrant child. "Lyle is dead – and he was the only other alternative to me. I say again, You Have No Choice In The Matter."

The tall African's face worked – emotions that Miss Parker didn't even want to identify flitting across it – and then he bowed. "You are, of course correct. Excuse me, Madam Chairman…"

"ChairWOMAN," Miss Parker corrected archly. "The meeting tomorrow is a formality – and I will be counting on Triumvirate support when I present my bona fides to the stockholders."

Adin was livid. The Centre had been within the Triumvirate's grasp with the death of both members of the Parker family – and now, it seemed, it was doomed to dealing with the one Parker it had never been able to completely overshadow. Lyle, Raines, Mr. Parker – all of them had received their share of "convincing" in Africa in their time. Only this Parker, protected by Mr. Parker's assurance that the line would continue on the male side of things, had been spared the time and expense and effort of Triumvirate programming.

Still, he was bound by the terms of the agreement signed nearly sixty years ago that said that a Parker MUST stay at the head of the Centre.

"You will have our support," Adin growled. "And I will be in touch with my people regarding the future of our… relationship." He turned and stormed through the billowing curtains – his arms flailing madly to move the elusive soft material out of the way so he could see his way clear to the door.

"And I will be doing much the same thing," Miss Parker muttered to herself and groaned as she reached for the rolling table and the cell phone that lay on it. She pushed a preset number and waited for the line to be picked up. "I want a representative from Legal and Bookkeeping down here in Renewal in an hour," she demanded curtly. "Tell them to bring all pertinent documents about the Triumvirate – the terms of our collaborative efforts, and a financial record of how and where the money is handled."

And so it begins, she thought as she dropped the little device back on the table and leaned back into her pillows. I never thought I'd make it, Daddy – but your little girl is now at the top of the heap. She closed her eyes tiredly.

I'll never escape this place now.


	13. Epilogue

Chapter 13 – Epilogue

Six Months Later – Friday morning

Lotulo Adin had never been known for being either a patient or diplomatic man. His meteoric rise within the Triumvirate hierarchy had begun with the brutal assassination of Bofi "Big" Mutumbo and merely accelerated with the mysterious circumstances of Alemi Adama and his death during the push to acquire a mysterious set of "scrolls" that supposedly was the source of power at the Centre. His reputation in the field both before and since his appointment was as merciless strongman, equally talented at the art of intimidation and – if the situation warranted it – physical violence. In a consortium that was founded on violence and intimidation as a path to power and profit, it was only logical that he would eventually find a place on the Council of Three that made all of the executive decisions.

And yet, Lotulo Adin HAD managed to be a patient man. The prize he was playing for – absolute control of the Centre from behind the scenes – was worth it.

It had been a long six months, being stuck here in the temperate climes of the United States – and an even harder six months for one accustomed to the Congolese climes to weather the slow chill that came as autumn claimed the northern hemisphere. The cooler the weather had grown lately, the deeper his frustration and discomfort. In a move once heralded by his two cronies on the Council, the death of William Raines had opened the door to potentially taking a much more authoritative leadership role in the Centre as it moved into the future. But then, disaster had struck: the expected – indeed long-awaited – heir designate to the seat of power, the one person the Triumvirate KNEW it could control easily, had been murdered in New York. This, of course, left as the last living soul with Parker blood qualified to take the Chairmanship the one Parker that nobody in the Triumvirate had wanted to deal with, either officially or otherwise – the one Parker it had never been allowed to train, mold or bend to its will.

But according to the agreement signed when the first offer of financial support had been made, the Chairman's seat at the Centre was always to be one of Parker blood – and so the Triumvirate had had no choice but to support Miss Parker's elevation to the position of supreme authority. And she, in turn, had wasted no time in proving the universal reservations the Triumvirate had held about her as valid. She'd immediately capitulated to the American legal process and put the Centre through a complete reorganization that included a review and shut-down of nearly every last project the Triumvirate had been sponsoring or paying for – all in the name of, as the Americans said, "going legit." With a Federal Adjutant looking over her shoulder and reviewing her every move – and in the process ignoring HIS council – the Triumvirate had been rendered helpless to stop her from essentially making their position within the Centre a moot issue.

But then the lawsuits had started looming on all sides – all arising from the select release to the media of information that had been seized during a raid on the Centre Delaware headquarters – lawsuits that, if they'd all been prosecuted, would have quickly bankrupted the American corporation. The legal profession in Delaware had responded by lining up to try to win clients from the maimed and damaged human effluent that had eventually spewed forth from the underground maze of laboratories and living quarters. Miss Parker's answer had been, with the Federal Adjutant's assistance, to set aside a huge amount of money to take care of any judgments won against the Centre. In the midst of the confusion, the Triumvirate had seized the opportunity to put as much financial pressure on the beleaguered Chairwoman as was possible to attempt to force her into concessions she would have otherwise refused.

The latest and most clever of these maneuvers had been to call in over four hundred million US dollars' worth of debt owed to the Triumvirate – debt that was, in actuality, in great part the investment the Triumvirate had made decades earlier in order to become silent partners. It had been agreed among the Three that the Centre didn't have enough liquid assets to satisfy those debts – and that this fact alone would force Miss Parker into finally making executive decisions that would further the Triumvirate's voice in Centre affairs for the next century at least. A Parker might sit in the Chairman's seat, but it would be a Parker completely dominated by Triumvirate directives.

That had been three days ago.

It had been a surprise, then, when Miss Parker had had her new secretary – a Chinese woman left over after Mr. Lyle's untimely demise – contact his charge d'affairs less than twenty-four hours ago and set up an appointment for an early morning hour that Mr. Adin considered nearly obscene. The sun wasn't even high enough in the sky to begin to shed warmth on the chilled landscape below. Only those business executives still struggling to make their first hundred million would even dream of being at the office at that hour!

The hallway that led between the express elevator to the Chairman's office – the one and only office on the top level of the Centre Tower – was lined on the eastern wall by picture windows that looked down on the expansive estate that stretched all the way to the shoreline. In the summer, the sight had been a pleasant one – but now the autumn chill had begun to dampen the green of the grass, and many of the deciduous trees were growing alarmingly empty of leaves.

Outside the etched glass doors stood two huge, muscular and stony-faced security men. Adin had quietly checked, but had discovered quickly after the elevation of Miss Parker to her position that many of the more trusted "sweepers", as the security here was called, had been summarily fired. In their stead came a virtual army of equally tough but otherwise incorruptible security men loyal strictly to the Centre and to Miss Parker personally – and the appointment of a small wisp of a man who had taken over the office of Surveillance and Internal Security and ran it with terrible efficiency from behind the blind of a computer monitor. No Triumvirate security team, either covert or out in the open, had been permitted inside the Centre since Miss Parker had taken control – and no diatribe or wheedle had changed that policy. Centre security was untouchable – the computer system hack-proof from even the best-paid of the Triumvirate experts' efforts – and there was not even a glimmer of the "good old boy" system within the sweeper corps that had been the wedge used to insinuate many Triumvirate operatives within the Centre team.

"She'll see you now, sir," JeiLing announced with practiced efficiency, and then nodded to the sweepers to pull the doors open for the African. Then, with deliberate casualness, she returned her attention to her computer screen – obviously dismissing the African from her attention. It was the kind of snub only a menial could give – and Adin bristled, but said nothing.

Instead he stalked with an icy, regal grace past the guards and through the doors – and right up to in front of the amazingly Spartan desk that was truly only a sheet of Plexiglas on metal supports. The clear surface was nearly empty – only a white telephone/intercom unit; a silver flat panel monitor, keyboard and mouse arrangement; and a few neatly stacked clear plastic file boxes populated the desk. Behind this ethereal and insubstantial throne sat the Ice Queen of the Centre herself – her slender fingers tapping an impatient tattoo on the clear surface of her desk next to a thin sheath of white paper resting in a opened manila folder in front of her. Adin didn't smile or greet her in any way. "You wished to see me?" he asked in a haughty and cold manner.

"I did," she replied in an equally cold and haughty manner, finally raising her storm-cloud grey eyes to meet his gaze. "You will want to sit down."

"I think I'll remain standing," Adin countered with a prideful sniff.

The dark head nodded slowly. "As you wish." Her forefinger tapped the page in front of her, then turned the folder and document around so that it faced her guest. "Am I right in saying that this amount is everything that the Triumvirate feels the Centre owes it? Is this what it would take for the Centre to pay off your organization once and for all?"

Adin blinked. "Are you contesting…"

"I asked," Miss Parker reiterated in a voice that had grown even colder, "if this is the amount that the Triumvirate believes that it is owed by the Centre – every last dime?"

"We have been funding several projects for over fifty years…" the African began again.

"The proper answer to my question is a simple yes or no," Miss Parker pointed out, her voice deceptively calm. "Is this, or is this not, the total amount of money the Triumvirate is owed by the Centre?"

Adin swallowed. This interview was NOT going anything like the way he'd anticipated. The American court system had already awarded tens of millions of dollars to past victims of Centre abuse or their families – with the promise of yet further awards to come. It had been considered a double-bind to threaten to call in the entire Triumvirate debt – a sure signal to Miss Parker to remember that she was beholden to Africa for her continued ability to simply do business.

"Miss Parker…"

"Yes or no, Mr. Adin," Miss Parker persisted, implacable.

Adin bent slightly so he could see that the paper to which she was pointing was the official notification document that had been sent on official Triumvirate letterhead. It was the document he himself had delivered to the courier. "It is," he admitted finally, raising his head defiantly and backing away to where he'd stood previously.

Again the dark head nodded slowly. "Good," she said in an oddly satisfied voice and reached for the small intercom box at the upper right corner of her desk. "JeiLing, will you bring me the document I left with you, please?

Almost immediately, one of the glass doors opened to admit the Chinese secretary, who gifted the African businessman with an enigmatic smile as she carefully and quietly settled a single paper onto the desk. Miss Parker nodded again and glanced at the door – and the secretary turned about and left the room without another word.

"I am prepared to discharge our debt to you in full," Miss Parker directed, reaching out to her computer terminal and, after reading what was on the paper she'd been given, typing quickly. She waited, typed again, and moved the mouse a few times, then looked up at him again. "My accountant assured me that this account holds the correct amount – but I want you to verify it yourself to make sure." Her grey eyes narrowed slightly as she now turned the flat panel to face him. "I want there to be no question but that once this money is transferred into a Triumvirate account, you and your consortium will consider yourselves paid in full."

"Miss Parker…" Adin tried to start again.

"VERIFY IT, Mr. Adin," she snarled at him, her emotionless façade dropping away. "I would not have it bandied about that the Centre either cannot or does not pay its debts."

Adin found himself forced step closer to the desk once more and stare down at the monitor screen. He had to school himself very carefully not to flinch when he saw that the amount registering as being on deposit in this one account was exactly what he and the others on the Council had decided would be their killer debt amount. Where had she found this money, he could only wonder.

"Well?"

"It is the correct amount, Miss Parker," he ground out reluctantly.

"Then all that is needed is for you to call your people and request an account number and a password into which I can transfer these funds." Miss Parker turned her monitor back, and then sat back in her comfortable black leather chair and regarded him with obvious relief. "The sooner, the better." She gestured at the telephone on her desk – an obvious hint that he was to get the account number and password right then and there. "If you don't mind, you can use my phone here, or your own cell phone – it really doesn't matter to me, as long as you get the information I need to transfer these funds into Triumvirate hands while you're here to see it done."

Adin picked up the receiver and began dialing the international number that would put him in touch with the Triumvirate accounting department, his ebony eyes snapping with anger. He and the Triumvirate as a whole evidently had seriously underestimated the true financial stability of the Centre – either that or William Raines and Charles Parker, each in their turn, had falsely pleaded poverty over the years. The truth of the matter – again – was a moot issue. The fact of the matter was that he was trapped – and the Triumvirate was poised to lose everything that it had worked so hard and so long to attain.

Ten minutes later he was stalking away from that transparent desk that now had proven itself considerably less than ephemeral. Before Miss Parker had let him go, she'd forced him to sign a receipt – a receipt that acknowledged the transfer of four hundred seventy-eight million dollars US as payment in full of all debts owed to the Triumvirate. Once that was done, however, he'd been dismissed as if he were a traveling salesman who'd worn out his welcome – and warned never again to attempt to tamper with Centre policy or officers. To add insult to injury, that slant-eyed slut of a secretary had grinned triumphantly at him as he'd passed by her desk – no doubt she'd known what her employer had been intending.

Still, to get the full four hundred seventy-eight million dollars was no mean feat – a healthy bulk of Triumvirate's total liquid assets at the time had been invested in the Centre - and there were plenty of places for the money to be invested. He'd be on the cell phone the moment his Centre limousine delivered him to the tarmac and the Triumvirate jet poised to whisk him back across the ocean to his home – there were other upstart companies whose lack of aversion to work that pushed the envelope of ethics and morality would make them good candidates for more intensive investigation.

If there was one Centre, there were hundreds who could be easily guided down the same path. Adin didn't even bother glancing at the slightly stark landscape through the huge plate glass windows, but stood patiently waiting for the elevator to take him back to the lobby. The sooner he was on his way, the sooner the Triumvirate could begin to build its next Fortune 500 company.

oOoOo

Miss Parker closed the folder in front of her and rose to walk over to the huge plate glass windows that graced the Chairman's office on the very top floor of the Centre tower. It was a chilly day, and she folded her grey cashmere-garbed arms across her chest as she leaned into the little bit of steel and concrete next to the window. The days were getting colder again – and she could feel winter coming on in her shoulder. It would be a new experience, watching the white stuff slowly cover the once green expanse of lawn and trees that graced the Centre grounds from the lofty vantage point that she'd always known would be hers in the end.

Sydney still wasn't convinced that her taking her rightful place as the Chairman – Chairwoman, she continually reminded both him and her stockholders – had been a good idea. But then, Sydney was still being over-protective of her – no less so now that he was back at work than he had been for weeks from his home, and for weeks before that from his hospital bed in a newly restructured and staffed Medical Floor that had once been euphemistically dubbed the "Renewal Wing." Like a hawk he continually watched her face for signs of too much job-related stress; and partially to placate him, she'd taken to leaving the office promptly at five in the evening and leaving all Centre-related business behind at the office until her return the next workday. Now it was as much a habit as taking her work home with her had been for years before this – and a much more livable habit at that. One of these days, she'd have to thank him – for that and for so much more.

She could not forget that it had been Sydney who'd launched himself across her bed and taken the bullet that had been meant for her – nearly dying himself as the result. The revamping of the Medical Floor had been an initial priority the moment the Chairwomanship had been officially hers – to get the man back closer to home where she could watch over and care for HIM once the tricky surgeries to repair his extensive injuries had been concluded in New York. Now that he'd finally been given a clean bill of health – although with orders to keep to a restricted work schedule because of the permanent damage the bullet had inflicted on both his diaphragm and heart – a good part of her anxiety on his behalf had eased. In the last week, since he'd actually started coming back in to work in his Psychogenics laboratory again, she'd found herself almost grateful for the way his grumbling and worrying at her over the chaos and stress of being the Chairman – Chairwoman! – was frustrating her again. At least in that way, part of her world was back to the way it was supposed to be.

And now the Triumvirate was out of her hair permanently – or at least as permanently as humanly possible at this stage of the game. And once more she was indebted to Jarod and his genius – this time for playing the stock market with Centre funds, with permission for a change. The combined balances of two of Raines' largest hidden savings accounts had more than tripled in a week – and tripled that again less than two weeks later. Two months of steady investment advice from Jarod on those accounts alone had yielded more than enough money to pay off the Triumvirate, with money to spare that would be much needed in the weeks and months ahead as she tried to piece together a legitimate research and development firm sitting on the cutting edge of several scientific fields. Overall, the Centre was once again financially stable – and in a position to shrug off its African yoke and still have adequate working capital and locked in investments to keep the operation running smoothly.

The next out of her hair would be the Federal Adjutant who had been supervising the reorganization of the Centre – and seeing to it that all of the excesses and outright illegalities perpetrated by the previous executives not only were a thing of the past but adequately dealt with. Nathan Cardenas had been gracious and understanding as she'd followed his lead in wending her way through all of the judicial and logistical mazes that had presented themselves, but it would be a relief to no longer have her every action be under a Federal microscope. She'd met or exceeded every condition he'd set for her – and he hadn't been into her office lately with a new round of directives from the judge – so with luck, his time here was drawing to a close as well. He'd accepted the story that Jarod was a friend with ties to Wall Street and approved the investment of Centre funds in the stock market after making sure Jarod was in no way committing insider trading fraud.

Jarod – there was another piece of her world that had nearly returned to its rightful place. He was Dr. Russell to her staff and anybody employed at the Centre, with the obvious exception of herself, Sydney and Broots. Her very first act as Chairwoman had been to officially close the file on the Pretender Project, followed by considerable covert effort to let it be known in all of the shadowy places that there was no longer a cash reward being offered for news as to the location of either Jarod or any of his family members. As her third priority as Chairwoman, after revamping the Renewal Wing for Sydney, she'd set up a trust fund specifically for the Russell family, spurred by the knowledge that both Ethan and Gemini considered themselves a part of that family now – so that there would never be a shortage of money for schooling or any other need they might have.

Jarod's answer to that move had been to quietly offer his SIMming expertise in predicting stock market fluctuations – and in doing so preventing the Centre from bankruptcy when the first of the settlement amounts had been handed down by the courts. Each of the once-hidden bank accounts owned by William Raines and Lyle Parker had been summarily emptied into the Centre General investment coffer – with the exception of the two set aside for emergency funding, which had come in handy when the Triumvirate had delivered what it had believed would have been the knock-out punch. When the returns on the funds entrusted to him had begun to trickle and then flow more and more steadily into the Centre, she had sent the former Pretender a Centre paycheck for his time and trouble – only to receive a phone call at two in the morning three days later by way of thanking her. Her need for coffee the next morning had also been an almost comfortable return to a well-known and familiar routine.

It was on Jarod's recommendation that Broots had been promoted to her old job – and the nervous little man had then proven both the Pretender's recommendation and his own worth by closing loopholes in Centre Security that both the Pretender and the Triumvirate had managed to take advantage of for years. Jarod had finally shown him how he'd been able to continually hack the Centre mainframe, and Broots had been able to close those trapdoors so that the next time Jarod called, he reported that he'd been unable to get in at all. It had been Broots' idea, however, to fire nearly the entire sweeper corps and start over – and it had been his idea to spend money to persuade the Pentagon to inform the Centre of the names of able-bodied servicemen being discharged so as to be able to offer them incentives for joining the Centre team.

Only a very few of the original sweepers were left – her own being one of them. She could remember Sam mentioning once a few years ago that Vic was about as trustworthy as anyone in the Centre – and that Ken and two or three others were unsatisfied with the manner in which Raines continually demanded they act. Sam's word had been all she had needed to retain those few while firing nearly a hundred others.

How she missed her taciturn and absolutely loyal sweeper! It was Sam's example that she held forth as the ideal to which the new sweeper corps should aspire. And remembering his one grouse to her a long, long time ago, she made sure the sweepers were more than amply compensated for the high standards of talent and behavior demanded of them. Still, she couldn't help wishing, on those occasions when her only feeling of security came from the big man walking behind her, that it were Sam back there. His sudden death had been one blow during that chaotic time from which it had taken a long time to recover. As secure as she was otherwise – both in her position and with her personnel – she would never feel completely safe again without him. At least, not for a while yet.

"Miss Parker, General Stevens is here for his nine-thirty appointment," came JeiLing's came voice over the intercom.

Miss Parker sighed and walked slowly back to her desk – the one she'd brought with her into this office and insisted on using in the place of that massively carved monstrosity that had belonged to her… to Charles Parker and those who had come both before and after him. Unlike him and those like him, she didn't need to hide behind imposition and ostentation – if she were going to be intimidating, it was going to be for her actions in the open, not that which happened behind closed doors or in the safety of shadows. The transparency of the Plexiglas spoke to that.

It occurred to her – and not for the first time – that Raines had been right all those years before, when he'd set forth the rules to the final phase of the game. The winner would be the one who survived. Well, she'd survived all of them – Raines, Lyle, her father – and she'd won the right to rule the empire they'd left to her. This was a new Centre now, however – and not the Hell she had inherited – her desk was but the most intimate and oblique of indications of the changes that had already happened and would continue to happen in the weeks and months ahead.

"Send the General in," she replied, pushing the button with a forefinger as she settled back into her chair. It might be Friday, but she still had a full day's work ahead of her. And with the Triumvirate finally out of the way, she could stop worrying about the past and begin the task of creating the kind of Centre that she could be proud of.

oOoOo

Friday afternoon

The guard nodded at Jarod as he waited for the door to the visiting cubicle to be unlocked. "Doctor Russell," Preston Harding nodded as he pushed the button on his panel to release the latch and open the door for the psychiatrist who had been a weekly visitor for nearly five months now. On the other side of the cubicle, another door opened at the same time so that Patient number 58297 could be escorted in as well. 58297 was a comparatively docile inmate of the Snelling Institute for the Criminally Insane. From the number of times he'd seen the man over the past few months, Harding had a very difficult time equating the gentle demeanor of the patient with his alleged crimes – two murders, one attempted murder and one assault with a deadly weapon. Yet he'd been there long enough to know that appearances could be deceiving – especially when dealing with the mentally unstable.

Jarod seated himself at the bench with the thick and bulletproof glass running across it and allowing him to see the man he'd come to visit without being in any danger from him. He watched with carefully attention as Hank was let into the other side of the cubby and sat down opposite him – looking for signs of recent mistreatment or upset. Thankfully, the past few months since Hank had been transferred from Bellevue to this institution had been relatively peaceful ones – although not without their rough edges. The Snelling Institute was a cutting edge psychiatric facility, but still the halls could echo with insane howlings, or the inmate cafeteria explode with violence over the most trivial of insults.

It hurt to see his friend like this – mostly sane, but locked away with people whose crimes were linked to minds that had been seriously bent and twisted. Hank's mind was amazingly clear now – most of the time. Getting him transferred here had been the best that the high-cost lawyers had been able to win, in light of the serious and cold-blooded nature of the killings in question. Getting him out of here would take a miracle, however – something Jarod didn't dare believe in anymore.

It was during those brief moments when Hank would see a tall, slender brunette woman with long and flowing hair in another cubicle – or when certain turns of phrases would be mentioned in casual conversation – that the depths of the tampering with his mind would become all too apparent. In those moments, all emotion would flee – and Jarod would suddenly get the impression of staring a shark in the eye. In those moments, the cold-blooded killer would resurface – and for the rest of the visit, Hank would be as unapproachable and unresponsive had he had been during his first three months of treatment here.

"Hello, Hank," Jarod greeted his friend with a wide smile. "How are they treating you lately?"

"Hi, Jarod. Things have been quiet." Hank leaned back in his chair, the phone tucked comfortably against his shoulder. "So what's the topic for the day?"

It was a standard exchange – Doctor Rickman had been as good as his word at getting Jarod appointed as the person responsible for deprogramming Hank. He'd spent the better part of two weeks – whenever not directly involved in writing the research paper that would spell the end of his residency and qualify him for certification as a psychiatrist in his own right - studying the information on the CD that Broots had rescued from the Centre mainframe. The same information that had managed to avert a double murder charge with the potential of the death penalty had eventually unlocked the secrets of what was done and in what order.

Jarod had consulted professionally with Rickman after the latter was appointed by the state to monitor Hank's condition during his confinement. After a long discussion, Jarod had been privately contracted by Rickman to help design the chemical cocktail to be carefully administered over time to counteract the powerful drugs that Cox had poured so liberally into Hank's system. Jarod had then slipped into a private counseling arrangement, again monitored by Rickman, to handle the reverse brainwashing. His efforts had undone a good deal of the damage – not all of it, but enough that Hank was once more generally aware of who he was, where he was, why he was there – and now nearly ready to begin dealing with the stress of being an unwilling victim himself.

Two hours later, Jarod watched his tired friend rise slowly from his seat and into the watchful custody of his escort. He reached into his pocket and switched off the recorder that had recorded the entire session into electronic memory – a transcribed tape of which would be turned over to the state psychiatrist – and leaned back in his chair to relax a bit and absorb some of what had transpired.

Slowly but surely, Hank's memory of incidents just before his kidnapping – as well as bits and pieces of what had happened during his time locked away in the bowels of the Centre – were beginning to make sense. Certainly he'd remembered enough today that his testimony, combined with the evidence seized in the FBI raid, could result in a warrant against Dr. Nathaniel Cox – had Cox not already been summarily put on a plane and shipped back to South Africa to face murder charges there months earlier. Cox's trial had already taken place, and Cox was awaiting his appointment with the executioner there in a Johannesburg prison cell.

What was more, the process Jarod had helped design had found a yet another use - to rehabilitate those other men who had been found locked away in the Centre – as well as another man who had exhibited so many of the same mannerisms that Hank had. It could only be assumed, but Jarod was certain that this other man – a former military man held in Sing-Sing for the murder of Lyle Parker – had fallen victim to the same Hydra Process. The results had been nearly identical to those he'd achieved with Hank – with the same periods of unresponsiveness and uncommunicativeness at visual images of dark-haired men or those same verbal phrases that Hank reacted to.

In the interview just finished, Hank had leaned forward to look at the photograph Jarod had offered of the man – and then he'd looked up at his friend with a touch of the old ache and confusion in his eyes. "That's Booger," he had announced with a slight tremor in his voice, "my friend from the shelter. I saw them pulling him into the back of the van, and I tried to stop them…" He had dropped his head into his hands. "That's when they came for me."

Jarod had fished into his pockets, pulled out eight more photographs and laid them on the table in front of him. "Can you tell me if any of these were the guys who came for you and Booger?"

It had been a calculated move – to date, nobody had asked Hank to identify his assailants, since his description of the men who had taken him had, until then, been far too vague to work with. But today Hank's memory had been crystal clear – for a while.

The orange-garbed inmate had looked at the photographs – Lyle Parker's and Willy Grant's among them – and nodded. "Yeah. That's them," he replied, tapping the two Jarod had imbedded in the group of pictures of other convicts pulled from the Internet. He had looked back up at Jarod. "Have they caught them yet?"

Jarod had shrugged as he pocketed all three photos. "Booger had been trained like you were," he had reported in a soft voice. "He killed the dark-haired man. The other one they did catch – at the same place where they were holding several other men we suspect were going to be programmed as you were. That one will be in jail for a very long time."

"He was the mentor, that one," Hank had tapped the picture of Willy again and announced in that flat voice he got when his thoughts ventured too close to the conditioning he and Jarod were working so hard to undo. "It was – is – his voice in my head."

Jarod had blinked. "Mentor?"

Hank nodded slowly. "He taught me how to handle the gun – showed me what to shoot at…" His head drooped again, and he rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "Whatever happened to… her… the woman…"

"She's fine," Jarod had reported gently. This was ground that apparently needed to be covered over and over again – as if hearing it over and over again was a comfort.

"But I killed two other people, didn't I?" This, however, had been new – Hank's awareness of his crimes had been peripheral at best until now.

"Yes." Jarod had answered even more softly, watching Hank's face closely.

"I sometimes see it in my mind," Hank had leaned his chin into his hand tiredly. "That boy – and that big man in the hospital. I can't even remember why I shot them." Without moving, he had aimed a questioning gaze at his friend. "Do you know?"

"Some of it," Jarod had answered honestly. "The woman was up for the same promotion as the man who directed your final programming – and you were the one chosen to eliminate her."

"This was over a JOB?" Hank's jaw had dropped, and his eyes filled with horror and disgust.

The interview had ground to halt soon after as Hank's memory deliberately closed back down over the entire affair. Still, that brief moment of clarity gave an indication that eventually Hank would be fully aware of what had happened, why, and the ramifications of his actions during that time. At that point, Jarod would be more than glad to revert to being just a friend and handing off management of the case to Rickman.

Jarod pulled his sports jacket back on and nodded to the guard on the other side of the cubicle to open the door. It was a relatively short walk from the visiting area to the front door of the institute – and another short walk from there to the parking lot. And yet, it was chilly enough that the sports coat would feel good in the open air. Winter was coming – his father would claim that he could "smell it", no doubt. Jarod had learned not to question his father's occasional idiosyncracies – when Major Charles said he could "smell" something, he had been right far more often than mistaken.

The Pretender frowned – there was a man leaning against the side of his sports car. Not really in the mood to put up with a family member of an inmate who wanted a fresh professional opinion, he straightened his back and strode purposefully forward – only to have his steps falter as he finally drew close enough to recognize the face of the man waiting for him.

"Detective Jarod Holmes," Captain DiAngelo pushed himself away from the little green car and into an upright stance. "Or should I say, Doctor Jarod Russell. Fancy meeting you here."

Jarod could feel his heart fall through the bottom of his stomach. "Captain DiAngelo…" he responded, unable to think of anything else to say.

"You're a hard man to track," DiAngelo stated with something sounding remarkably like admiration. "I have to hand it to you – you didn't make this easy at all." He stood back and gestured at Jarod to unlock the car. "Go ahead – get in. I'm coming with you. You and I have a few things to discuss that would be better handled in private than out here in the open, don't you think?"

oOoOo

DiAngelo carried his beer and that of his companion to a table at the very back of the bar he and Jarod had walked into and settled into the comfortable leather-lined booth with a sigh. He pushed the second bottle across the table as Jarod warily slipped into the booth across from him and then took a long draught directly from the bottle he'd retained for himself.

"You left me quite a dilemma to work through, Doctor Russell," DiAngelo said after plunking his bottle down on the table noisily. "Or is Doctor Russell just another name you're using for a few days and then moving on?"

Jarod debated stonewalling the man, then relented. DiAngelo had proven himself as dogged and patient a detective as any of the best – it would only be a matter of time before the man found out the truth for himself. "It's my real name," Jarod admitted, turning the beer bottle on the table in front of him with dexterous fingers. "And I'm sorry about…"

"Impersonating an officer is a felony, you know…"

"I know." Jarod let his gaze sink into that of his former police captain. "But there was no other way to…"

DiAngelo held up a hand. "I figured that one out a long time ago. A crime had been committed, and nobody was paying attention. What's more, the police department as a whole benefited from your efforts in the long run – thus my dilemma." He lifted his bottle and took another long swig. "I had to choose between letting you go, knowing you guilty of a felony, and hauling your ass in, knowing it would destroy most of the credibility and goodwill you'd created for us."

Jarod felt a chill run down his spine. "I take it you've come to your decision?" Nervously he lifted the beer to his lips and took a sip, not even tasting the liquid before he swallowed it.

"A decision? No…" DiAngelo carefully set his beer down on the table and leaned forward. "Not yet, anyway. What I've done is run you to ground so that you can tell me what the hell was going on – all of it. I'm certain the newspapers only printed a small portion of it in the end."

"A crime had been committed…" Jarod began lamely, astonished.

"Forget that," DiAngelo growled. "There was more to the story than just a few missing homeless, and you know it. What I want from you is the truth – from the beginning to the end – and THEN I'll make a decision as to what to do about you."

Jarod's face gained a soft wistfulness. "I doubt you'd believe me if I told you the WHOLE truth," he said with a touch of sadness. "The truth of the matter would play better as the plot for a fantasy television series than an explanation."

DiAngelo picked his beer up again and leaned back against the hard wood of the tall bench back that divided one booth from the next. "Let me be the judge of that," he answered tersely, sipped at his beer, and prepared to listen.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

Jarod sighed. "Why ask for a confession? Why not just haul me in?"

"I told you," DiAngelo explained with exaggerated patience, "if I were to haul you in, I'd destroy most if not all of the public relations goodwill and police department credibility that came as the result of closing a case like this – where the victims were the "little guy." Frankly, if I'm going to undo all the good you accomplished for us, I want to have a damned good reason for it."

"In that case, why not just let me go – file the reasons for my actions under M for Mystery and be done with it?"

DiAngelo's eyes narrowed. "Because you DID commit a crime, and because I've found you. By rights, I should haul your ass in – but something tells me that there may be mitigating circumstances. I want to hear them. I told you – you've posed a pretty dilemma for me for the last few months. I deserve to know the whole story, rather than just the bits and pieces you saw fit to feed us to get what you wanted."

"There's a whole lot of backstory you'll need to know first," Jarod hedged. Did he dare tell this police captain his story – his whole story – in order to keep himself out of deeper trouble? "The foundations of this situation were laid decades ago…"

"Hit the highlights and then get to the point," DiAngelo grumbled and took another hit of his beer. "And quit stalling."

Jarod sighed again audibly. "All right – remember, you asked for this… When I was about five years old, I was stolen from my parents by a corporation known as the Centre. You see, I have a genetic predisposition…"

oOoOo

JeiLing looked up from her work and smiled as she watched the old psychiatrist and the wide-eyed little boy walk slowly hand in hand toward her desk. "Is she busy?" Sydney asked, keeping his voice neutral so as not to unduly startle or upset the child.

"Let me check", the secretary replied in much the same tone, having learned from numerous experiences recently that little Tommy Parker could tolerate very little tension or upset in his world. And his explosions of emotion and violence upset his big sister – her boss – and so were things to be avoided at all costs.

Heir-apparent to the Parker Legacy, Tommy had nevertheless been subjected by William Raines to an upbringing in almost total isolation from human contact. In an experiment almost obscenely close to what those in psychological and psychiatric circles considered the "Forbidden Experiment," the boy had deliberately been raised with only minimal human interaction in order to supposedly measure the socialization potential of the untrained human animal. The unfortunate result, however, had been that little Tommy had come out of his underground prison nursery almost incapable of controlling his emotions or communicating effectively.

It had been Sydney's sharp eyes while culling through Raines' personal journal that had uncovered the fate of the hapless infant – and his big sister had immediately called for her last living relative to be released from his cement-block prison nursery. When the sad consequences of five years of isolation quickly started to become painfully and embarrassingly clear, it had been Sydney again to whom Miss Parker had finally turned in desperation.

Only calm and tranquility could keep the child at least behaving moderately well – and only a continued controlled environment would slowly help the boy find a place in society. At first, it was decided that such peace and quiet would be best accomplished at Sydney's townhouse during his recuperation period. Assisted by the nurse assigned to help the old psychiatrist, Sydney had helped Tommy begin his slow assimilation into what it meant to be part of a family unit. And now that Sydney was able to handle coming back into work for a limited amount of hours each day, he had volunteered to spend a good deal of his time in the Sim Lab working with the boy on a more concentrated basis.

Tommy was beginning to respond to the consistent love and behavioral boundaries set him by Sydney and his big sister, becoming slightly more responsive and interested in the world around him – although the wonder and curiosity that should have been his was still achingly absent. Sydney was beginning to despair of the boy ever completely recovering to the point that he'd act and interact like the intelligent child he was, although he did see the possibility that Tommy would at least be able to live a full and enjoyable, although supervised, life.

Unexpectedly, Angelo had turned up and thrown himself into assisting the old psychiatrist in the Sim Lab once Sydney had returned to work with Tommy in tow – and was ultimately benefiting from the treatments himself as well. Angelo's ability to communicate clearly had taken a few very small steps forward – and he seemed to be much more content of late. Sydney suspected the improvement had come about because Angelo's unique talents were no longer being called upon for activities the empath knew instinctively were wrong – but until the odd young man could communicate better, that would have to remain an educated guess.

"Miss Parker, Doctor Sydney and your brother are here to see you," JeiLing announced in a gentle tone, smiling down at the little boy when his eyes leapt to her face at the sound of her voice. Little Mr. Parker was a sweet-faced child – it was hard to imaging that anybody would have ever wanted to keep him locked away from everyone somewhere down in the sublevels.

Tommy's hand in Sydney's tightened slightly, and Sydney looked down at him. "That's JeiLing, Tommy," the musically accented voice spoke reassuringly. "You know her, don't you?"

Eyes a storm-cloud grey so very much like his big sister's remained glued to the secretary's face, but the little boy began to nod slowly. Still, the child leaned against Sydney's leg just a little harder, as if taking comfort in the familiarity of his guardian's presence.

Sydney glanced an apology to JeiLing, who raised her eyes and gifted the old man with a smile as well. "At least he isn't crying this time, Doctor Sydney," she commented approvingly. "He's come a long way."

"There he is," Miss Parker stated, pulling the glass door of her office open and crouching down with arms spread. "There's my little man." Tommy released Sydney's hand and ran awkwardly to his sister, burying his face in the collar of her soft cashmere sweater as he was enfolded close. "Such a nice hug!" she whispered to him, feeling him snuggle just a bit closer in response. She rose with him in her arms, his legs naturally finding a purchase on her hips and his arms wrapped tightly around her neck. "Come on in, Sydney," she added for the older man's benefit, "I've just about had enough paperwork for the day – I'm ready to spend a nice, quiet weekend at home with my two favorite men."

Sydney stepped close and opened the door so that Miss Parker could go back into the office, turning to nod his thanks to the still smiling secretary just before the doors closed behind him. "You seem in a good mood," he commented quietly and followed her across the plush carpet to one of the chairs that sat in front of that glass and metal desk.

Miss Parker seated herself in her comfortable chair and pulled a plain piece of paper and a crayon close so that Tommy could entertain himself if he chose to, then let herself sigh lightly. "Another milestone passed today Syd – we'll never have to worry about the Africans again."

"The Triumvirate?" Sydney's voice was slightly sharper with surprise, and Tommy flinched in his sister's lap at the sound.

"We just surprised Sydney, didn't we Little Man," Miss Parker crooned at the boy and kissed his cheek gently until he settled down again, then raised her head to look at the psychiatrist with a smile of triumph. "Paid them in full and told them to get lost," she continued smugly. "I don't think Mr. Adin was expecting that – and it felt good to see the disappointment."

"If they're removed as a player, then all you have to worry about it…"

"The Federal Adjutant," she filled in the rest of his sentence for him. "And from what he told me today, that may be coming to an end soon as well."

Sydney leaned back in his chair and gazed at her fondly. "I always thought it was going to take a miracle to turn the Centre around – and here and you've just about done that in a little over five months. Your mother would be proud of you, Parker."

"Maybe." Miss Parker kissed the top of the head of the child in her lap absently. "I'm glad that the actions I took just before we both got hurt ended up being unnecessary. I don't think she'd have been so proud of me for having lied and forged my way to the top of the heap, do you?"

Sydney's chestnut eyes narrowed slightly. "Feeling philosophical as well as satisfied, Parker? That's an odd combination for you."

"Perhaps. Then again, maybe I should let myself BE philosophical more often."

The old man smiled. "You've been talking to Jarod again, haven't you?"

She shook her head. "Not recently – not since he gave me that last set of investment tips." She let her eyes rest on her old friend, her expression wary and vulnerable. "I was kind of hoping that once all the pressure was off him and his family, he'd stop being a stranger – especially after everything else that has happened…"

Sydney sat forward a little. "Are you telling me you WANT him as a friend again, Parker? After all these years of calling him a Lab Rat?"

Miss Parker opened her mouth to answer, only to have her attention drawn away when a small hand cupped her cheek and pointed down to the paper in front of her. "Very good, Tommy," she complimented the chaotic jumble of lines that covered the paper now. "You may have a future as an artist, did you know that?" She kissed his head again and then looked back at Sydney. "I haven't called him that for months now – not since you found Tommy and I wondered about how HE'D feel if someone called him Lab Rat."

"Maybe the time has come for you to call Jarod, rather than waiting for the contact to be from the other side," Sydney suggested gently, knowing he was stepping into dangerous territory. He'd always tried to steer clear of the relationship between his protégé and the Chairman's daughter. He'd neither helped nor hindered it in decades past when both were children, and he'd deliberately steered clear of it in the months since Jarod and the rest of the Russell's had been taken from the Centre radar permanently. His own relationship with the former Pretender had continued to be strained by echoes of past recriminations from Jarod and a lingering sense of intense personal guilt – and he knew that his advice was just as sound coming to him as coming from him.

Miss Parker didn't answer, but rather looked down at her wristwatch. "It's five o'clock on a Friday," she whispered in her little brother's ear. "What do you want for supper tonight – pizza?" Wide grey eyes flashed immediately to her face as Tommy nodded in what was, for him, excited animation. She looked back at Sydney. "You're joining us, aren't you?"

"I promised Angelo a trip to someplace nice to eat," Sydney shook his head gently. "I want to see how well he can manage outside the Centre, in a less controlled environment. I was thinking…"

Miss Parker's gaze rested on her old friend for a long moment. "So we buy two pizzas. I take it Angelo's had one before?"

Sydney's brows rose. "Are you sure, Miss Parker? This will be the first time out for Angelo, and..."

Miss Parker's response was to raise one brow expressively. "I'm not in the habit of making invitations frivolously, Syd. I know Tommy enjoys having Angelo around – and Angelo could use an outing from these walls." She looked around her. "God knows I don't know how he managed to stay sane, living in Hell for the last thirty some years." Then her eyes landed on her old friend again. "Besides, it's my turn to spring for supper – isn't it?"

Sydney's smile was slow, but it was one of the very rare, wide smiles that seemed to make a room grow warmer. To see Parker trying so hard to put together a semblance of family for her little brother was encouraging – giving him hope that at long last she'd shake off the influence of her father's harsh upbringing and regain the grace and gentility that had been her mother's. "I'll go back to the Sim Lab and get him ready for his trip then. He can stay the night with me, and I can bring him back in the morning – that will make it more memorable for him, and give me a chance to extend the experience beyond…"

"Oh, stop being a shrink, Freud. Just pack him up and have him at my house by seven, ok? I'll try to arrange for delivery at about that time or a little after." Miss Parker carefully dislodged her little brother and put him on his feet next to her. "Go get your jacket, Tommy – you don't want to get cold."

Both Parker and Sydney watched as the little boy ambled over to where his jacket had been folded and placed on top of the small toy box that inhabited a corner of the Chairwoman's office, hidden from only the sharpest of eyes by a couch. Tommy paused as his gaze caught on something outside the huge picture windows, but his hands went slowly through the motions of donning the jacket anyway. Parker looked back up at her old friend. "He is getting better, isn't he, Sydney?"

"He didn't whimper or cry when JeiLing talked to him earlier," Sydney enumerated softly, "and he seems to be staying on task despite being a little distracted. I'd say that his progress has continued at a decent rate. We'll see what happens in the next month or two – after more detailed testing and intensive therapy."

The two adults rose as the child finally let go of whatever it was that had held his attention outside and ambled back to his sister. "Have I said thank you lately for everything you've done – for me, for Tommy?" Miss Parker asked in a very soft voice as her hand landed gently on the child's shoulder.

Sydney's silver brows soared up his forehead in surprise. "What's brought this on?" he asked in amazement.

Miss Parker bent to retrieve her purse from where it had landed that morning – on the floor near the back right leg of her desk – and then steered Tommy toward the door and Sydney. "I just think that it's about time that you began hearing it more often," she answered thoughtfully. "You've done a lot that I should be grateful for – and I'm not just talking about Tommy here." The grey eyes misted over as she saw in her mind's eye his fall across her legs in New York City. "I don't think I've ever adequately told you…"

"Stop Parker." Sydney shook his head gently. "You don't need to say anything. What I've done, I've done because I wanted to – and because I cared, even though I wasn't supposed to." He smiled at her again – once more that wide and warm smile. "It has been my honor – and privilege."

She shook her head as well, contradicting him effectively. "It does too need saying, Sydney – and I haven't."

"Then wait until we can talk privately," the old psychiatrist said with a glance down at the little boy. "And then you can also tell me what brought this all on – because you don't normally indulge yourself in recriminations…"

"It isn't recriminations," she shook her head again. "I was just thinking a while back about everything that's happened – and…"

"Parker…" He leaned forward and deposited a very small kiss on her cheek – a gesture almost as out of place in their relationship as her fumbling expression of gratitude. "Let's get supper going, shall we? Tommy's probably hungry – and I know that my stomach has been growling for the last hour too."

Tommy slipped in between the two people who were the most important figures in his life, taking Miss Parker's hand in his left and Sydney's in his right. "Hom…" he said in his oddly flat voice, tugging on both hands at once. "Ea…"

Miss Parker looked down at Tommy and smiled at him. "How about we go down to Sydney's office and wait while he gets Angelo ready to come with us? What do you think?"

"'Gelo?" Tommy looked up at Sydney expectantly.

"Let's go see if he'd like that," Sydney answered. And together, the three of them walked out of the Tower office.

oOoOo

Jarod took a deep breath as the lights of the city began to drop away in his rear view mirror. He still couldn't quite believe that he was free – that DiAngelo had actually heard something in the fantastic story he'd told that tipped the scales in favor of just letting the Pretender walk away from a charge of impersonating an officer - but here he was, on the turnpike headed south.

But… going where?

A destination had been the last thing in his mind when he'd dropped DiAngelo off back in the parking lot of the Snelling Institute, where the police captain had left his personal vehicle. He'd headed to the nearest turnpike entrance and hit the speed control, letting the automatic part of his mind handle the steering while his emotional state was unsteady. An hour had passed, however, and the lights of New York City and vicinity were just a warm glow on the horizon behind him.

Where to now?

Jarod tossed the possibilities around in his head. His parents had left him a standing invitation to come down and weekend with them whenever he wanted – an invitation reissued when JD had moved out of the homestead and into Boston to attend college. They knew all about Hank and what had happened – the entire family had stayed up one night listening and asking questions and probing until everyone understood everything. He wouldn't have to explain much – just mention the name DiAngelo – and his mother would no doubt find an excuse to make him a huge mug of hot chocolate to go with her willing shoulder, attentive ear and ever-constant sympathy.

For the first time in a long time – since he'd moved to New York City and put a little distance between himself and his parents – that didn't sound so bad. His mother had tried many times during that first year of reunion to "mother" him the way she envisioned he needed it, and while her sympathy was always welcome and the hot chocolate delicious, the fierce protectiveness she'd displayed when responding to whatever situation had upset him had been almost an irritant. Tonight, however, it would feel good to hear her rail at DiAngelo, the Centre, and everyone else who had conspired to make his life so difficult.

A little more content, he settled back in his seat and turned on the radio – finding an oldies station that played the kinds of songs that he and Zoë had listened to on their many "road trips" before her cancer had rendered her bedridden. Those were nice memories too, he decided. Maybe he'd call Grandma – Zoë's grandmother, with whom she'd lived out those last few, terrible, weeks – and visit her too. She was pretty good with the level-headed advice and solid comforting too – and Mom had never begrudged him his visits to her.

Of course, he could always call Sydney – but had, up until lately, managed to find a good reason not to. The old psychiatrist had his hands full now with Miss Parker's little brother – and Miss Parker, if he knew his huntress at all. Sydney's health was much more fragile now than it had ever been before too – his heart weakened by the scar tissue left from the bullet he'd taken – and upset was the last thing he needed. And Jarod knew that if he ever REALLY decided to re-establish contact with his old mentor and father-figure, there were a number of issues that would need settling between them that promised upset galore for both of them.

Jarod ran his right hand through his short-cropped hair. Maybe it was time for that too. Sydney wasn't getting any younger – and if by any chance the old man were to die before the two of them ever took the time to settle things between them…

No.

He had two weeks vacation coming in about a month. Somewhere in that time, he could make room for a trip to Blue Cove. He'd have to clear it with Parker first, though – let her know that he'd make sure Sydney didn't get too rattled or upset, if he could help it. Then again, he had plenty of issues to close with her too. Yes, maybe now that the shadow of prosecution for his last Pretend in the NYPD had finally been dispelled, it was time to dispel a whole lot of other shadows that had been lurking for years.

But for now, it was time to go home.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and with a thumb pushed the button that would dial the number he needed. "Mom," he asked the moment the voice came on the line, "how would you like to make a nice big batch of hot chocolate?"

oOoOo

Miss Parker pulled the afghan from the back of her couch and covered a slumbering Angelo, who'd played with Tommy until the child's bedtime and then simply curled up on the couch to watch the flickering flames in the fireplace. It had been a quiet, relaxing evening – the pizza had been a hit with the empath and the little boy alike – and even Sydney had eaten a full portion for a change.

She worried about her old friend, whose appetite had waned during his convalescence. In the months he'd spent recovering, she'd rediscovered the treasure trove of her mother's old cookbooks and a battered old wooden recipe box – and made good use of the lot of them. She'd made it her job to tempt him into eating what he needed to in order to heal by trying out dish after dish – and Sydney had finally started to lose the gaunt look he'd acquired after six weeks of hospital cuisine.

Still, however, she had to keep an eye on him – and make sure his fridge at home was stocked with enough cheese, butter and other healthy snack, salad and sandwich makings that she could be reasonably sure that he'd get one good meal a day. It felt different to see how the seasons had turned – how in years past, he'd worried at her; and now it was her turn to worry about him. And it was interesting to see how the both of them were acclimating to this change in their relationship – how he had initially bristled at the idea of her interference in a matter as personal as a diet, but had now gotten used to either being a guest in her house or having her making him a meal in his own home.

"Is he asleep?" Sydney asked from behind her.

"Dead to the world," she replied and straightened. "I doubt you'll move him again tonite."

"I'm going to need to get him home, Parker…"

"Let him sleep, Syd. He's comfortable, and he seems to be resting well. You can take the guest room tonite, and take him home with you in the morning, if you want."

The silver brows rose again. "Parker…"

"We need to talk – you were the one who wanted to wait with it until we could speak privately – and now that he's asleep and Tommy's in bed…" She crooked a finger and led the way past the formal dining table into the kitchen. "Sit down – I'll make us some tea."

"I think maybe a drink instead?" Sydney suggested evenly. He smiled at her as she turned in surprise. "Not a big one for either of us – neither of us needs to get drunk in order to bare our souls – but a little whiskey for me and bourbon for you might hit the spot for a change?"

"I haven't had a drink with you since…"

"Longer than I want to remember," he finished for her, steepling his fingers together thoughtfully as she fetched the two short glasses with amber liquid in them. The last time they'd been even close to having a drink together was nearly ten years earlier, when he'd been discovered plastered in an upscale tavern after discovering the Centre's complicity in an accident that had stolen away a student he'd been mentoring. Tonight, however, the circumstances were far more comfortable. He was neither drunk nor raging – and she had managed to set aside her own troubles with the bottle too. He raised the glass she handed him. "To better times at the Centre – and at home."

"Amen." The glasses clinked together gently, and then both took a sip.

"Now," Sydney started, putting his glass down in front of him, "you can tell me what spurred you into that strange mood this afternoon – and no skipping the little details."

Miss Parker held up her glass in front of her, turning it slowly with her fingertips and staring into its depths. "It was after I finished talking with the Triumvirate representative – after I sent him on his way with his tail between his legs," she began slowly. "I got to thinking about how my world was slowly starting to come together again." She raised shy eyes to him, "And how nice it was to have you fussing and worrying at me from the Sim Lab again."

Sydney's lips quirked into a lopsided smile. "If I'd known how much you enjoyed it, I'd have fussed at you from it a great deal more for a lot longer a time."

"Oh hush!" she smiled suddenly at him and shook her head slowly. "No – it's just that between you fussing at me and Jarod calling me at two in the morning…"

"He called you?" The brows rose again. "I thought you said that you hadn't spoken to him since…"

"Oh that." She took another sip. "I made the mistake of sending him a check written on an official Centre account a while ago as reimbursement for his expertise on the stock market." She smiled very quietly in remembrance. "The two-o'clock phone call was to remind me that making him officially associated with the Centre – no matter how obliquely – had repercussions I needed to be aware of. I haven't needed so much coffee in the morning as I did that day for a while now."

Sydney chuckled and sipped at his drink. "Still…"

"It occurred to me, as I was taking in the long view of how things are shaping up now that I hadn't really been as… expressive… as I should have been about how grateful I am for everything you've done for me," she stumbled forward, finding the confession no less awkward now than it had been a few hours earlier.

Sydney's big hand came forward and captured one hand away from her drink glass. "Parker, I meant what I said earlier. You don't have to say anything. Everything you've done in the last few months – all of the arrangements you've made for me, the fussing you've done over ME – have done an excellent job of speaking for you."

"It still needed to be said," she persisted, staring once more into her drink. "If there's one thing I've learned these last few months, it's that things that need saying SHOULD be said while there's a chance to say them." She raised her eyes again. "All it takes is one moment to rob a person of all the other chances – and then we'd be left with regrets."

Sydney was struck with her sincerity. "Very well," he allowed, "then I'll repeat what I told you earlier – that it has been my honor and privilege to be of assistance to you. You…" Now it was his turn to falter over words that suddenly came with great difficulty. "You are very dear to me – and always have been." He could say more – much more – but the time for that depth of revelation was not yet. He blinked hard to dismiss ideas that were only now starting to bubble up at him from the depths of his heart and then smiled shakily at her. "I also meant what I said when I told you I was very proud of you. You've done what I thought couldn't be done."

Miss Parker took a longer sip. "I didn't know that I'd be able to do it either, Sydney – to take the Centre as it was and turn it around. But you know I had to try…"

"You are your mother's daughter," he replied comfortingly.

"Mother wouldn't have tried to forge…"

"That document ended up being moot," Sydney shook his head. "You didn't need it to get where you are now after all. You got the Chairmanship…"

"ChairWOMANship…" she corrected with a smirk.

"…on your own," he smirked back without correcting himself. "You are a Parker – and if you don't mind my saying so, the best of the lot."

Miss Parker sat back in her chair, her drink resting on her chest for a moment. "So you think I should call Jarod?"

The old psychiatrist blinked at the sudden shift in topic, and then nodded. "I think we both should call him," he replied. "IF we want to have him play a part in our lives from now on, that is."

"He tried to tease me that night, you know," she remembered softly, "about my being the one to rule in Hell now."

Sydney chuckled. "Ruling in Hell? I'd never thought of it that way, but I suppose that's about as apt a job description as I've heard for you for a while."

"But it isn't Hell anymore, is it?"

Sydney smiled warmly at her. "No, Parker, it may not be Paradise, but it certainly isn't Hell anymore. And what it will be when all is said and done has yet to be determined. Those who come after you will be the ones to make that judgment."

Miss Parker raised her glass yet paused before taking a sip. "Now who's being philosophical?"

Sydney raised his. "Here's to ruling in Hell, Miss Parker," he answered and tapped his glass musically against hers, "and doing so for a good long time to come."

FIN


End file.
